High Crimes Read Online Free PDF Page B

shocked silence.
    In a small voice, Annie said, “Mommy?”
    “It’s all right, baby.”
    “Mommy, I’m sorry.”
    “It’s okay. It’s not that, baby—”
    The front door opened. A jingling of keys, then a cough announced Rosa’s arrival.
    “Is that Daddy?”
    “It’s Rosa. I told you, your daddy’s going to be away for a while.”
    “Mrs. Chapman!” exclaimed Rosa, rushing over to Claire and helping her slowly to her feet. “Are you a’right?”
    “I’m okay, Rosa, thanks. I’m fine.”
    Rosa gave a quick, worried glance at Claire, then kissed Annie on the cheek, which she sat still for. “ Querida. ”
    Claire brushed back her hair, nervously adjusted her blouse. Knew she was a mess. “Rosa,” she said, “I’ve got to be at work. Can you make her breakfast and walk her to school?”
    “Of course, Mrs. Chapman. You want French toast, querida ?”
    “Yes,” Annie said sullenly. She slid her eyes furtively toward her mother, then back to Rosa.
    “We’re out of eggs, Rosa. I just used the last this morning. On that.” Claire gestured vaguely toward the mess on the floor.
    “Then I want toaster waffles,” Annie said.
    Rosa knelt on the floor, gingerly picking up shards of china and putting them into a paper Bread & Circus grocery bag. “Okay,” Rosa said. “We have waffles.”
    “Give me a kiss, baby,” Claire said, leaning over to kiss Annie.
    Annie sat still, then kissed her mother back.
    On the way out of the house, Claire picked up the kitchen phone and listened for the broken dial tone that might indicate a new voice-mail message.
    There was none.

CHAPTER SIX

    “ It’s bad, ” moaned Connie Gamache, her longtime secretary. “The phone hasn’t stopped ringing in two days. The voice-mail thingo is full, can’t take any more messages. People are getting mean . There’s a lady and several gentlemen here to see you.” She lowered her voice. “I use the term loosely.”
    “Morning, Connie,” Claire said, turning to look. The waiting area, two hard couches and a couple of side chairs, normally empty, or maybe occupied by a lone student or two, bustled with reporters. Two of them she recognized: the New York Times Boston bureau chief, and a TV reporter from Channel 4 News that she liked. Claire raised her chin in a silent greeting to the two of them. The last thing she wanted was to talk about the Lambert case to a bunch of indignant journalists.
    “ I need to hire an assistant,” Connie went on without pause. “All of a sudden you’re Miss Popular.”
    “I’ve got a faculty meeting in half an hour or so,” Claire said, unlocking her office door—C LAIRE M. H ELLER engraved on a brass plaque, her professional name—and removing her coat at the same time.
    Connie followed her into her office, switched on the overhead light. She was broad-shouldered, large-bottomed, white-haired; decades ago, she’d been beautiful. She looked much older than her fifty years. “You’ve got a lot of reporters who want interviews,” she warned. “Want me to send them all away, or what?”
    Claire began unpacking her briefcase into neat piles on the long cherrywood desk. She exhaled a long sigh of frustration. “Ask what’s-her-name from Channel Four—Novak, Nowicki, whatever it is—how long she needs. Ask the Times guy if he can come back later on, maybe this afternoon.”
    Connie shook her head in grave disapproval. She was good at handling the media but considered them all leeches to be plucked off the instant they’d affixed themselves. Claire was grateful, actually, for her secretary’s concern, since she was usually right—reporters tended to sensationalize, exaggerate, and fuck you over if they possibly could. And usually they got their stories wrong. In a minute Connie returned. “Now I’ve got them mad. Carol Novak says she just needs five or ten minutes.”
    “Okay,” Claire said. Carol Novak, that was her name, had been good to her—smart, reasonably accurate, with