The Rule of Three, page 21
“Ooh,” I say, the sheer brazenness of the idea tickling me. “Some set of stones that would take, if he’s behind it all.”
“Doesn’t seem to be a guy who’s lacking nerve,” muses Wolcott. “And who knows? Maybe he’ll even get a kick out of it. Like returning to the scene of the crime, in a way.”
“Well, having had the pleasure of speaking to the guy, I can tell you that he enjoys no shortage of arrogance. And who knows?” I feel a burst of excitement at the prospect. “Maybe this son of a bitch serves himself right up.”
Wolcott grips the knot of his tie with one hand and gives the length of fabric a tug with the other. “Break out your classiest mourning attire, Silvestri.” He squares his shoulders, a glimmer in his gaze. “We’re gonna bump that RSVP from a maybe to a hard yes.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
MONICA
As soon as I walk into the vestibule from the downpour outside, I recognize the sound of people talking about me. The wagging tongues halt after a blur of double takes when I enter, and I keep my head held up, as much as I want to turn and run. I look over the crowd, and one eternal pause later, their attention settles back on one another and the cadence of somber conversation resumes.
Even though I’ve prepared myself for the worst, a deep gnawing of otherness reverberates in me as I step into the fray. I don’t see Vicky or Laura anywhere among the hundreds of darkly clad mourners in tight circles in the grand hall of the Libby Mathers Memorial Community Center, generously built and donated by none other than Terry Barnes. As I maneuver through the crowd to an open spot underneath the photograph of Libby in her school uniform, I notice that Terry’s name is as big as hers on the large brass plaque bolted to the wall beneath.
I’ve only been in the building a handful of times before. They were all Kingsland fundraisers for nondescript causes, which were really just excuses for the residents to roll out their red-carpet-worthy duds and drink too much top-shelf liquor on Terry. The center is probably the most overly lavish and amenity-filled building of its kind that I’ve ever seen, with floor-to-ceiling marble, cathedral ceilings, a full-size theater, a state-of-the-art gym, and an Olympic-size swimming pool.
I hand my umbrella to a kind-faced woman in uniform who has appeared out of thin air, and she gives me a coat-check number in return. I thank her with a smile, slide the paper ticket into my purse, and survey the chittering throng.
A startling yelp echoes from the direction I’ve just been, and I see an impeccably dressed woman in six-inch heels being held up by a silver-haired man in a navy suit and a pocket square.
“I could have broken my neck!” she exclaims loudly while glaring at the woman I’ve just handed my umbrella to.
I spot liquid pooled at my feet and realize I’ve been dripping water from the front door to where I was standing. A short woman in uniform, seemingly out of the shadows, quickly swipes it away with a small towel before I can make a move. My face flames up as I move from the spot quickly and into the center of the room.
Three hundred and sixty degrees around me are faces and mouths contorted into smirks and frowns. The ambient noise of a hundred hushed conversations overlapping and the collective buzzing makes the room feel like it is tilting on its axis.
“Mathers is on life support . . . not unlike his career . . .”
“I’m glad I have an alibi for that night . . .”
Every few seconds, suppressed laughter ripples around the room and I shudder.
“. . . publicity stunt? . . .”
“Victoria looks incredible as always. You’d think she’d look a little less perfect today . . .”
Every direction I turn, I feel more boxed in by the chorus. I expect no one’s sympathy or condolences today, but I put up a shield around me just in case. These people are here for Terry, or the spectacle. No one is here for Spence, or me.
“Did you see how many congressmen are here? . . .”
“Someone told me that Nichols attacked Barnes the day before . . .”
The competing snippets of conversation carry and meld with the disquieting conversation running at top volume through my own head. I try to block everything out with no luck.
“. . . shot ten times in the heart . . .”
“Is it true he is being cryogenically frozen? . . .”
“The wine is fantastic, at least . . .”
I move through the bodies with my head down and my arms folded tightly across my chest.
“God, can you even imagine, she was the one who found him . . .”
“The killer was in the house with her . . .”
I can’t locate Vicky anywhere in the sea of people. I’m feeling hot and dizzy and worry that I might not be able to contain the scream that is threatening to escape my body.
“The family is cursed . . .”
Someone to the left of me gripes loudly to a passing caterer with a tray of full red wineglasses about there not being any white. The waiter looks indifferent and keeps moving toward the main room, where it seems the majority of the attendees have congregated. I spot an opening and push through to a space off to the side of the room.
Along the periphery of the crowd there are professional poster blowups of Terry and a number of photo collages with a collection of pictures spanning baby pics through shots as recently as the Fourth of July barbecue. No one is looking at the photos.
I peer closely at the group of shots from just days earlier and start to shake. In one of the prints, I can see Spencer in the foreground. A sickening chill runs through me. He is off-center and out of focus. Gil is also in the shot, with his head thrown back mid-laugh and standing off to the side of the main subject of the photograph. True to form, front and center is Terry, his hands in the air dramatically. The realization that two-thirds of the people in this shot are dead, and one is barely alive, turns my stomach.
“Why does it always rain at funerals?” someone behind me muses.
“This isn’t a funeral, dear. It’s a memorial service,” a deep voice responds.
“What’s the difference?”
“You need a body for a funeral.”
I move away from the photos and toward a spread of crab legs, shrimp cocktail, oysters on the half shell, and an array of other seafood. There are also numerous untouched growlers of Terry’s homemade beer, Barnes’s Brew, on ice, which people are passing by without a second glance to get to the seafood bar. Well-dressed multitasking mourners are making small talk with one another while filling small plates and balancing them with their wineglasses and scanning the room for who has just arrived. The only difference between this event and any other I’ve attended here is the gloomy color scheme of the clothing and the lack of Terry Barnes setting the average volume slightly above a scream.
I walk toward the main hall and grab a glass of white wine and gulp it down fast before I reach the doorway. It is surprisingly delicious for event wine, and I feel its effects almost immediately.
There is a group of well-dressed men blocking the entrance, their backs a mix of expensive summer suits and dark sports jackets. The space beyond is packed with people, their voices a blend of whispers and soothing tones. The absence of happy laughter is a stark reminder of the reason why we are all here, and when an errant chuckle erupts, it startlingly rips through the gloominess.
I am grateful for my shorter stature at this moment. I can hide in the shadows of the pack of Terry’s mourners. I lean against the wall and none of the men in front of me turn or acknowledge my presence.
“Bloody awful,” an older man with an English accent says. “Shot right in his home.” I can see the backs of the men’s heads shaking. “I wouldn’t believe it, if it was anyone other than Barnes.”
“And Nichols was in a park or something?” someone asks, and I shrink a little. “With Mathers?”
“I’ve heard a lot of conflicting stories. All terrible.”
“Who do they think did it?” asks another.
“My money is on Mathers,” a third man replies.
“I wouldn’t have pegged him for a killer, but he’s always been a bit of a wild card.”
“True. I spent some time with him during that week in Saint Lucia in 2000. The man was a maniac.”
“He isn’t dead yet.”
“Saint Lucia! That was epic! You were there? I don’t remember you, mate.”
“Funny, I don’t remember you either,” says one, chuckling lightly.
“It was that kind of weekend.”
“Barnes did throw a good party, I’ll give him that.”
They raise their drinks and I have to restrain myself from smacking the glasses out of their fat hands.
“To the king of the lost weekend.” They toast.
As I push through them, the tallest of the three abruptly drops his smirk when he sees my face.
I move through the crowd and spot two familiar faces: the detectives. I see Silvestri propped up against a wall studying the mourners a few yards away. Wolcott is walking slowly around the border of the main floor before he slides into the space right in front of me. My heart does a two-step and I freeze in place, praying he won’t spin around and use the opportunity to question me. Luckily, he seems more interested in the cluster of people talking in front of him.
The group of mostly men and one extremely dour-faced woman are locked in a tight circle and don’t seem to notice either of us.
“I can’t believe he didn’t show up,” a man with bad acne scars says.
“He’s on the East Coast right now. I saw him at the screening a couple of nights ago.” The woman’s frown lifts momentarily before resting back into solid misery.
“Not like ol’ Randall to miss an opportunity to rub elbows with the DC crew. There is a lot of glad-handing to be had here,” a man in a seersucker suit, looking better suited for a derby, says as he scans the room.
“Or to miss drinking Terry’s good stuff,” adds a ruddy-faced man to his right.
Wolcott seems absorbed enough in what the men are saying, and Silvestri seems focused enough on someone in the other direction, that I’ve gone unnoticed. I move away from the detectives quietly.
I see Milly talking with a group of women that I recognize from the neighborhood and turn away, but I feel her long-nailed hand on my arm before I make it very far.
“Moooniiicaaa,” she says dramatically. “How are you doing?” She is head to toe in black with dramatic makeup and a tight topknot bun atop her pinhead. “This must just be a nightmare for you. I am just so beside myself, I can’t even eat or sleep. I’ve been at Vicky’s side every minute since it all happened.” She draws curious looks from the people around us.
I don’t say a word and let my eyes bore into hers. She shifts uneasily on her Louboutins.
“Fuck off, Milly,” I say harshly before breaking away from her, leaving her stunned and a few people in earshot slack-jawed.
I catch sight of Vicky making her way to the dais as the crowd’s murmurings begin to quiet. I watch my friend, statuesque in a stunning indigo silk dress with capped sleeves and a beautiful Gucci scarf around her shoulders.
I feel someone sidle up next to me and I see that it is Laura holding two glasses of wine. She wordlessly hands me one and I take it, relieved for the company.
“You look like you need this,” she says.
I accept the glass and take a large sip.
“Vicky opened Terry’s special wine collection for this.”
We sip together in silence, both intently watching Vicky.
“He would have lost his mind if he was here and realized she’d gone into his stash. He loved that wine more than her,” Laura says.
“I thought it tasted too good for a catered event,” I say.
“Just pace yourself. You don’t want to be carried out of here and give the gristmill any more material,” she says disdainfully.
I take another sip and look at Laura. “How are you?” I ask her.
She keeps her gaze on her sister, who is waiting for the crowd to quiet down completely.
“Never better,” she says, her sarcasm as full-bodied as the wine.
“Any update about Gil?” I ask, bracing myself.
“He’s improving. I think they’ll bring him out of the coma soon.” She whispers this directly in my ear as the room around us grows silent. My heart races.
Vicky clears her throat and begins to speak.
“Dear friends and family, thank you for being here today. It brings me great comfort to see so many familiar faces in this room. As most of you know, I’m not one for public speaking, so I promise to keep this short and sweet.”
The audience is completely rapt, with all eyes on her. I see a few stragglers entering the back of the main hall when I look over my shoulder and realize how crowded the place has become. It looks like there are at least three hundred people packed into the space and I begin to feel claustrophobic.
“We are gathered together to celebrate the life of Terrence Charles Barnes—Terry, as all of you knew him—a devoted husband, son, friend, colleague, and public servant. Though taken from us far too soon, Terry carved a bold path and left quite a legacy in his wake.”
I’m finding it hard to keep focused on Vicky’s words and am distracted by the hundreds of microreactions happening all around me. I glance at Laura and wonder if she’s having the same experience, but she is laser focused on her sister, a look of stoicism chiseled across her face while Vicky continues to mesmerize the room.
“My husband was many things: stubborn, opinionated, outspoken, occasionally temperamental. Now, I know what you’re probably thinking: Vicki, did the man have any flaws?”
Vicky expertly pauses as a wave of tentative laughter moves through the room and grows louder as more people respond. I catch sight of Wolcott and Silvestri, now both on the outskirts of the crowd, intently watching the audience, not the speaker. Their focus distracts me, imagining that they are scanning each face for any clue of what might have happened to Terry, Gil, and Spence. I redirect back to Vicky, who isn’t missing a beat.
“But in all seriousness, Terry contained multitudes. He was a passionate human being who advocated for the things he believed in and stayed the course in the face of adversity. He was fiercely loyal to those in his camp.”
I watch a few people in front of us exchange dubious glances with each other and a woman pinch the man next to her in the back of the arm when he mutters something to her under his breath.
“Terry served faithfully as a member of Congress, always paying the office the respect he felt it deserved. And he built this community that is Kingsland as a haven for those who’d erred along the way, but who he felt were deserving of a second chance in life.” Her voice is strong but emotional.
“His dedication to, and advocacy for, this principle of salvation was just one of the many displays of compassion that my husband exhibited, close to the vest though he may have kept them. Terry was always willing to lend a hand to a friend in need, whether it was providing a business opportunity as a way to help someone get back on their feet, or even donating the assistance of his legal team to those embroiled in woes of their own. He was always happy to provide a boost to anyone who he felt could use a leg up.”
Someone snickers and another person shushes them somewhere behind me. I’m amazed at how clear, confident, and composed Vicky is able to be and wonder if she’s conscious of all the commentary happening in the room.
“It’s crazy to think that it was only days ago that many of you joined us at our home to help celebrate the independence of this great nation of ours. It was one of Terry’s favorite events of the year, and I’m so glad that he was able to spend that time with those closest to him, enjoying the warmth of spirit and comfort of community that meant so much to my dear husband. In the short time that I enjoyed with him afterward, he spoke of the happiness it brought him, a feeling that I sincerely hope you all shared as well.”
Vicky’s voice trembles for a second and I watch in awe as one perfect tear rolls out of each eye and down her flawless cheeks. The entire room is holding their breath. Whatever their opinion of Terry, the gravity of what has happened to him, and to her, appears to have fully taken hold of everyone.
“As we leave this celebration of life today, please take a moment to keep Terry present in your hearts and minds, and to acknowledge the indomitable spirit that guided him through life, all the way to the end. I sincerely appreciate everyone coming here to show your love and support, and please know that my dear husband held you all in as high esteem as I do. Thank you so much.”
Vicky smiles appreciatively at the room and a few scattered bursts of applause break through the heavy silence before stopping short after realizing that this isn’t a clapping-appropriate occasion.
“She was amazing,” I say to Laura, who is still looking at the dais even though Vicky has moved from her place to rejoin the group.
“She always is,” Laura agrees.
“The detectives are over there,” I say to her softly.
“I know.”
“I wonder what they think about all of this,” I say, looking around the room at the cast of characters surrounding us.
“I think they are wondering what everyone else is,” she says.
“What’s that?”
“If Terry’s killer is in the room right now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
WOLCOTT
“Well, that was a bust,” says Silvestri, wrestling with a large umbrella as we step out the front door of the community center and pause off to the side of the walkway. “At least as far as Hemmings is concerned.”
