Free Shadow of Power by Steve Martini Page A

on television.”
    “But the police must have checked it out?” she says. “They must know something.”
    “If they do, they aren’t sharing it with us. Besides, there’s a certain dynamic to a case like this, once the cops start to focus on a suspect. And they arrested ours—”
    “Yours,” she says.
    “Mine.” I smile at her. “They arrested Arnsberg very early on. In that kind of a situation, where they focus early on one suspect, unless there’s an alibi—the suspect was somewhere else at the time of the killing and can prove it—or some other hard evidence that points away from their suspect, the cops can be very myopic. Shortsighted,” I say.
    “Dad, I know what ‘myopic’ means.”
    “Sorry. I keep forgetting you’re not a kid anymore.”
    The taxi takes a right, and we head down one of the less-congested cross streets toward the East River. Here we are surrounded on both sides by well-manicured multistoried brownstones. The cab pulls up in front of one of these and stops. We step out, and I pay the driver.
    I check the address against the note I’d taken during my telephoneconversation with Bonguard. “This is it.” I had been expecting a commercial high-rise.
    There are baskets of colorful hanging flowers adorning the wrought-iron trellis that arches over the doorway at the top of the stairs. The small-paned windows are framed by neatly painted green wooden shutters, the paint glossy and fresh. Sarah and I head up the steps. On the door a small brass plate announces:

    BONGUARD & ASSOCIATES
    Talent and Literary Agents

    I ring the bell, and an instant later a buzzer unlocks the door, so I push it open, and we enter. Inside is a large vestibule, polished hardwood floors, and solid millwork, a heavy beamed ceiling. Dark mahogany banisters flank a curved stairway leading to the upper floors in what was once an impressive private home.
    Set back and off to one side is a small Louis XV desk, dark enamel and gold leaf. Seated behind it, a pretty young woman is talking on the phone.
    “I’ll give him the message. I’m sure he will get back to you as soon as he can.” She hangs up, makes a quick note, and then looks up at us. “Can I help you?”
    “We have an appointment with Mr. Bonguard. Paul Madriani.” I hand her a business card. She takes the card and glances down at a calendar in front of her.
    “Just a moment.” She picks up the telephone receiver and pushes two buttons on the desk set, waits a couple of seconds, and then, to a voice on the other end, says, “A Mr. Madriani here to see you. Your ten o’clock. Yes.” She hangs up. “Someone will be right with you. Please have a seat.” She points toward a Louis XV sofa that is fitted into the curving wall supporting the staircase. The couch is one of those antiques with fluffed-up pillows the air from which will dissipate the moment you look at it.
    Between planes and taxis over the last two days, we have been sitting for a long time, so we elect to mill around studying the artwork.
    “Can I get you some coffee, a soft drink?” the receptionist asks.
    I look at Sarah. She shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
    “We’re fine,” I tell her.
    We spend five minutes checking out the prints on the walls, copies of early Manhattan landscapes, sailing ships in the harbor, and Wall Street when the stone wall it was named for was still in place. I am beginning to wonder whether Sarah is regretting that she didn’t go shopping. Finally I hear footsteps on the landing overhead. They move quickly down the stairs. When I turn to look up, I see the face I saw on Leno, a little thinner than I remember on the tube.
    “Mr. Madriani.” He holds out his hand as he reaches the bottom step. “Richard Bonguard.” He is younger and a little taller than he appeared on television, and his smile is broad. If he retains any reticence regarding our meeting, he covers it well.
    I take his hand, and we shake. “Good to meet you.” We pass a few