Fever Dream by Dennis Palumbo Read Free Book Online

constantly, faxes curling out of their holding bays. Images from various cable news stations flickered from the four wide TV monitors positioned strategically around the room.
    And throughout all of this hustle and noise, a few slightly older, obviously veteran political types were moving purposefully among the maze of desks, like bees going from flower to flower. Your standard campaign soldiers. Ties askew, shirt sleeves rolled up. Sweating profusely despite the shiny new window AC units. Cell phones and Blackberries in hand, they either leaned down to squint unhappily at computer screens, or up to stare unhappily at one of the TV monitors.
    At the top of the stairs, Lowrey and I found a series of office doors. Again, a nostalgic tableaux of dark-stained wood and frosted window-glass. Above each door there was even the proverbial transom. It was like stepping back in time to the urban Pittsburgh of the early Fifties, when black soot coated the buildings, electric trolley cars rumbled down cobblestone streets, and everybody wore a hat.
    Lowrey knocked at the first door we came to.
    I smiled. “What’s this, the last actual smoke-filled room?”
    She wisely ignored me and we waited in silence. But only for a few moments. Then we heard Harry Polk’s gruff voice calling through the door.
    “If that’s you, Lowrey, come on in. And bring the doc with ya.”
    ***
    Leland Sinclair sat behind a small, cherrywood desk, elbows on the blotter as he listened to the murmured voices of the men arrayed in chairs around him. This room also had a newly-installed window air conditioner, whose steady drone provided an almost lulling white noise.
    I did a quick head count. Lt. Biegler. Harry Polk. And a squat, powerfully-built man I remembered from one awful night during the Wingfield investigation. The SWAT commander, Sgt. Chester—I’d never gotten a first name—was still wearing his Kevlar from the crime scene. His narrow-eyed appraisal of me as Lowrey and I came in was a carbon copy of the one Biegler was giving me.
    The only face I didn’t know belonged to a tall, sharp-featured man in his late thirties. He gave me a look that tried very hard to be cursory, but didn’t quite succeed. Instead, I got the impression of a hawk-like intelligence that didn’t miss much. Dark hair, trimmed mustache. Silk tie, Windsor knot, long sleeved white shirt with gold cuffs. No jacket.
    “I’m Brian Fletcher,” he said with a tight smile, rising to shake hands. “Lee’s campaign manager. Welcome to the madhouse.”
    Hardly an apt description. Leland Sinclair’s campaign office was as spare and orderly as the main floor below was cluttered and chaotic. I wasn’t surprised. I remembered his office in the district attorney’s suite from my several visits there last year. Pristine, elegant furnishings. Appropriately-placed wall hangings, lighting fixtures, decorative items. Family photos on the desk, also appropriately placed.
    This office, though much smaller and more spartan, reflected similar qualities of judicious thought, banked emotions. The studied attempt at control.
    As did the man himself.
    “Dan Rinaldi. Nice to see you again.”
    Sinclair rose from behind his desk to grip my hand. Handsome, patrician face. Silver hair trimmed a bit shorter than I remembered. Tailored Armani suit. Manicured hands that belied the strength of his handshake, which he held firmly, and a beat too long.
    Reminded me of my opponents in my Golden Gloves days. Trying to intimidate you in the first round.
    “Congratulations, Lee. I hear you’re still three points ahead in the polls.”
    His smile was theatrically pained. “Never trust the polls, Danny. Just ask my pollster.”
    Brian Fletcher laughed shortly, as did Biegler. The campaign manager looked at him.
    “I’m on the payroll, Lieutenant. I have to laugh at his jokes. What’s your excuse?”
    Biegler reddened, and glanced over at Sinclair, as though for moral support. Apparently, the DA wasn’t