Let Justice Descend. Lisa Black

Riley asked. Kelly seemed to assume, as most people would, that the death had been natural, and they saw no reason to enlighten her.

      “No! Not that I knew of, anyway, and I made her doctor’s appointments. She didn’t always eat right, of course—way too much high-fructose corn syrup—and she drank alcohol now and then—and she didn’t exercise, per se . . . but seriously she must have logged twenty thousand steps a day. I gave her a Fitbit for her birthday to find out.” She shook off this memory and asked, “What was it? Heart attack? Stroke?”

      “We’re not exactly sure yet. But you say her health was good?”

      “Yes, but . . . she was in her sixties.” Which to a woman Kelly’s age must have seemed ready for a rest home. “She was fine last night. A bundle of energy, just like every single day I’ve known her.”

      “Tell us about yesterday,” Riley said in his avuncular way, notebook already in hand. “How long had Diane been in town?”

      The answers came promptly and firmly. “Since Friday night. Day before yesterday.”

      “And you came with her?”

      “Yes, a Delta flight, Dulles to Hopkins.”

      “Do you live here?”

      “No! I mean, not in this house—and not in Cleveland, no. I have a brownstone in DC. When we’re here I stay at the Marriott. I’m from Cincinnati, originally,” she added, as if that might help her standing among them.

      “Can you walk me through Diane’s schedule yesterday?”

      She didn’t hesitate, either in speech or step, continuing to move as she spoke, brushing the leaves aside as if she were angry at them. “Eight a.m. breakfast with the Capital Management unit at city Hall. Nine-thirty visit to RNC—”

      “RNC?”

      “Republican National Committee HQ. Because the election is Tuesday—and don’t ask me what the hell we’re going to do now!”

      This thought so upset her that it took a gentle prod from Riley to get her thoughts back on the timetable.

      “We were supposed to visit the river site at ten, but Carlyle cancelled, so we rescheduled for today, even though it’s Sunday. We . . . we were supposed to be there at eight this morning, but she didn’t show up. The ribbon cutting is at ten! I’m going to have to call—”

      “You weren’t going to pick her up?” Riley interrupted.

      “She likes to drive herself. She’s not pretentious that way . . . ‘not one of those old-money Republicans,’ she always says. Of course, Devin follows her.”

      Riley’s eyebrows swept up, and a severe tone crept into his voice, speaking on behalf of taxpayers everywhere: “Does it really save any money to have the Service guys in a separate car?”

      “No, but driving around and sleeping is the only quiet time she gets.”

      Jack stood, arms crossed, watching her as she spoke. Thoroughly discombobulated but not devastated—and that seemed appropriate. Diane Cragin had been her boss, not her mother, so it didn’t seem odd to him that her thoughts already turned toward replacing candidates rather than abject grief. Even if she hadn’t quite moved the woman into the past tense.

      And the pacing had slowed. Now Kelly stayed on one flagstone, feet planted as if the grass had become moving water and she must stay balanced to avoid a soaking. “Because Carlyle cancelled, we were early for lunch at Lola with the money half of Vepo. In the afternoon, a stop at the public employees’ union and a tour of Medical Mart with the Google Analytics reps. Three o’clock meeting with state party accountants. Then she came home to freshen up before the fund-raiser.”

      “What time—”

      “It started at five, and she was on time for once. Her speech went well. About nine, I think, she told me she was leaving and to make sure Ken and Andre and Jade had everything they needed.”

      “Did she have any plans to stop anywhere?”

      “I didn’t ask, but I doubt it. She didn’t say anything, and she looked pretty tired.”

      “Not surprising. That sounds like a pretty busy day.”

      She blinked at Riley as if this statement baffled her. “They’re all like that.”

      “Where was this fund-raiser?”

      “City Club. It’s on Euclid—”

      “Yes, I know,” Riley assured her. The City Club, established 1912, had been in its current location for 35 years. “Did she have any arguments with anyone in town? Any beefs?”

      A hint of a smile, the first one Jack had seen from her, at the old-fashioned term. “Beefs? About a million, but nothing unusual. Everyone is on the same page as Diane—they know she’s doing what’s right for the state and for Cleveland. Carlyle is a pain, but—”

      “Who’s Carlyle?”

      A half eye-roll. “The EPA inspector for the crib renovation.”

      “Crib?” Riley asked.

      “The water intake facility,” Jack said. Riley’s eyebrows raised again, apparently surprised that a relatively recent transplant like Jack would know the term. The “crib” took in water for the city’s supply from a structure about three miles offshore in Lake Erie. Like the senator’s home, it had been there for about one hundred years and carefully maintained, but still some extensive upkeep was due. Jack had read about the reno job in the Herald once or twice.

      Kelly went on. “He’s making a fuss about it, but that’s what the EPA does—makes a fuss. Diane wasn’t worried, the facts will back us up. Wait—has anyone called her kids?” Already pale, she blanched further. “Will I have to do that?”

      “We can make notification,” Riley soothed, and asked where the family members lived.

      “Her daughter’s in Texas and her son’s in Washington—the state, not the city. She has one grandchild . . . I’m not sure if it’s her son’s or her daughter’s. Hey, she has some sort of a niece or something in town here—she can tell Diane’s kids. They’d be, like, cousins, right? So that will work.”

      “What’s the niece’s name?”

      “Oh, hell, I don’t know. And we’re going to have some sort of state funeral! I don’t even know how to do that!”

      Riley continued with the softened voice. He was good at it, much better than Jack. “I’m sure someone in Washington has experience with situations like this. Did she—”

      “The RNC will know what to do, but I’ll have to—” Kelly Henessey mused, lost in thought over discreet coffins and invitation lists. Doing her job to the end, Jack thought—admirable but perhaps not helpful right then. If Diane Cragin had any enemies bitter enough to murder, or had gotten mixed up in a deal dirty enough to kill, they would have to overcome Kelly’s professional reticence. Political second-in-commands existed to protect their bosses from every sling and arrow, and she would continue to polish Diane’s star even in death, out of either a sense of loyalty or a sense of polishing her own résumé at the same time. No one in DC would want to hire someone who couldn’t keep a secret. “The governor has to appoint someone for the rest of the term—no problem since he’s the same party, but it seems silly for two days . . . he’ll only pick his choice for the new candidate anyway—but the election. Oh my God, the election!”

      “Miss Henessey—”

      A breeze swept through the yard, and the chill seemed to jolt Kelly back to herself. The sky remained gray, and the temperature hovered in the midsixties—not bad for November in Cleveland. “Why are we standing out here? Can we go inside?”

      “Not yet. We’re still processing.” But this time Riley’s tone couldn’t smooth over