Inside Passage. Burt Weissbourd
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there is no crime. In this country, everyone’s a criminal—lawyers, politicians, stockbrokers, you name it.”
“Why don’t you go back?” Abe opened the car door.
Sam leaned over the front seat. “Are you crazy?”
Abe nodded, used to this, and tapped the bowl of his pipe against the curb. He stepped out of the back seat.
“Abe?” A burly man Abe recognized but couldn’t name was crossing Twenty Second on his way to brunch. “You have a driver?” he asked, seeing Sam getting out of the car.
“I don’t drive anymore.”
“Why not?”
“I’m often preoccupied.” As if to make this point, Sam took Abe’s arm steering him around a pothole. “And when I’m distracted, I sideswipe parked cars.”
“No kidding.” The man clapped Abe on the back, then headed toward the house.
Abe followed. As he walked up the front steps, he patted down his tousled hair. For Abe, Sunday brunch was a manageable, not-too-intense way to see his mother. He came once or twice a month and stayed at least an hour. His presence was important; appearances meant a great deal to Jesse.
As he stepped down into the living room with the fourteen-foot ceiling, the walk-in fireplace, the lake and the mountain views, he checked his watch: 11:30 a.m. Okay, he would make the effort to stay until 1:00 p.m. The room was grand, yet somehow warm, even welcoming. Abe believed it was the interior woodwork. People said the walnut and mahogany were irreplaceable. There were at least thirty people today, and he recognized about a third, mostly regulars. He found his mother, talking in her up-close-and-convincing way with a former congressman and another man he didn’t know. At fifty-six, his mother was still a classic Nordic beauty. Blonde hair framed a fair-skinned, blue-eyed face. It was a face men noticed—stunning and unforgiving. Jesse was tall and slender. She wore carefully chosen clothes from Milan, or Paris, or New York. She had a knack for making every touch count. He watched her move on. Jesse ruled the room—with a gesture, a word, a glance—a frosty Northwest princess who had grown into a worldy, gracious queen. She was as socially able, Abe knew, as he was maladroit. He wasn’t ready to talk with her yet, so he stepped out onto the stone patio and lit his pipe.
What was on his mind was that woman, Corey Logan, who had come for an evaluation. She was angry, but she liked who she was; and she was confident—in a quiet, brave way. Not the usual prison bravado. What was so confusing was the call he’d had from her probation officer, Dick Jensen. He didn’t know Jensen, but the guy had called to warn him about her…how she lied, how she fooled people…why would Jensen make that call? It was odd.
“Abraham,” Jason Weiss’ familiar voice interrupted his musing.
Abe turned and shook his hand warmly. Jason, a lifelong friend of his own deceased father, had been his mother’s lawyer and confidant for years. Jason’s suits were dark and expensively tailored. He wore a silk tie every day, and was the only Seattleite Abe knew who went every winter to Naples, Florida.
“I must have missed you last week,” he offered.
“I wasn’t here,” Abe explained.
“My point exactly.” Jason rubbed his ear lobe between thumb and forefinger. “So?”
Abe tapped the burnt ashes in his pipe into a flower pot. He knew what was coming.
“You seeing anyone?”
And then Jesse was between them, taking Abe’s match hand, shushing Jason. “Abe, you owe me a call.”
“What call?”
“I called you at the office.”
“That’s a paging service for my patients.”
“Right. You’ve told me that.”
He rubbed the back of his head. She had paged him to meet some famous artist’s—was it Picasso’s?—granddaughter. She meant well.
“She was lovely,” Jesse noted ruefully.
And he was single, and forty-one. He looked toward the patio door. “Could you introduce me to some of your friends?” he asked, knowing she would like that.
At the door she nodded toward a fit-looking man, leaning against the walk-in stone fireplace. He was well dressed—charcoal suit, pale blue shirt, light gray on black cashmere tie—with a warm, engaging smile. “Our guest of honor,” she said, “the next state attorney general, Nick Season.” He had a face you would remember, Abe thought, strong and alluring. Jesse held him back to give him the low-down. “He’s a crackerjack union lawyer—Boeing machinists, police guilds, restaurant workers, you name it. Represents firefighters all over the state.” She leaned in. When it came to presenting a candidate, she had perfect pitch. “He’s got moxie, too. The man encouraged more than one firefighter’s local to take women recruits.”
As she detailed where Nick was going, he drifted. She took his arm.
“And he delivered union support to gay candidates when it counted. He plays hardball, but people like him because he sees both sides. And he’s a little bit unconventional…” She squeezed his arm. “Like you. Look how his hair’s a little long in the back.”
Abe noticed that it was maybe a quarter inch longer than it ought to be. But this guy was not like him. No, this man was charismatic. Women wanted him, men admired him, and he knew it.
“The woman he’s talking to, Fran Lipsom, is a publicist I brought up from L.A.,” Jesse added. Then she moved him forward.
At the fireplace, Nick was patiently explaining to Fran, the publicist: “Seattle isn’t Chicago, not even Baltimore. We sail, we chop wood when we’re upset, a ‘machine’ is something we wash laundry with.”
Fran shot Jesse a look Abe recognized—she could sell this guy, easy.
Jesse stepped closer. She whispered something in Fran’s ear. They laughed together. Nick was already answering a local politician’s question. Jesse and Fran listened in, plainly liking what they heard.
Abe turned away and tried to find a familiar face. Jesse stepped closer to Nick and steered him by the elbow toward Abe. “Abe,” she called to him before he could get away.
Abe turned back. The candidate was smiling at him. “I’d like you to meet Nick Season,” Jesse said to Abe. Then to Nick, “This is my son, Abe.”
Nick extended his hand. Abe shook it. “I’ve heard good things about your work,” Nick said.
“Don’t believe anything my mother tells you,” Abe joked. He realized too late he had been graceless.
“Your mother is innocent.” Nick laid a hand on Abe’s shoulder. “Actually, I heard about you from Detective Lou Ballard.”
This guy did his homework, he had to say. Lou was a friend of his, and Nick had turned his gaff into a connection between them.
“You know Lou?”
“Worked with him when I was in the county prosecutors office. None better.”
He was right about that, though Lou was unpopular. “I agree.”
“Call me. Let’s have coffee,” Nick offered.
“I have to warn you, I’m a bona fide political liability. Honestly, I’m always saying the wrong thing. I’m afraid there’s not much I could help you with.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” Nick smiled, shook Abe’s hand again. “Think about it.”
“Fair enough. Best of luck to you.” Abe turned toward the patio. Nick Season had made a good first impression, no mean feat for a politician.
Nick watched Abe slowly lumbering across the living room. The big guy didn’t like it here; you could see it in his