Free The Front by Patricia Cornwell Page B

Lamont.”

    The State House dome shines over Boston like a gold crown, and as Lamont stares through the dark tinted window of the state police black Expedition, she wonders why twenty-three-karat gilt instead of twenty-four.
    A pointless bit of trivia that most assuredly will irk Governor Mather, who touts himself as quite the historian. She’s in a mood to throw him off balance as much as possible this morning. To pay him back for snubbing her, and at the same time to remind him of her immense value. Finally, he’ll hear her out and realize the brilliance of her crime initiative, the Janie Brolin case, and its immense international implications.
    The aide escorting Lamont is chatty. Lamont isn’t. She walks with purpose, quite familiar with the hallway, the council chamber, the cabinet room, the waiting room of portraits and handsome antiques, and, finally, the inner sanctum. All that should have been hers.
    â€œGovernor?” the aide says from the doorway. “Ms. Lamont is here.”
    He’s behind his desk, signing documents, doesn’t look up, She walks in.
    She says, “If anyone will know the answer to this, you will, Howard. The State House dome. Why twenty-three-karat instead of twenty-four?”
    â€œI guess you need to ask Paul Revere that.” Distracted.
    â€œHe covered it in copper,” Lamont says.
    The governor signs something else, says, “What?”
    â€œIn case you’re ever asked, I know you wouldn’t want to misspeak. Paul Revere covered the dome in copper to make it watertight.” She helps herself to a heavy chair upholstered in lavish damask. “The dome wasn’t gilded with gold leaf until about a century after that. And I’m fascinated you chose a portrait of William Phips.” She studies the severe oil painting hanging over the marble fireplace behind Mather’s desk. “Our esteemed governor of Salem witch trial fame,” she adds.
    One of the perks of being governor is picking the portrait of your favorite Massachusetts governor to hang in your office. It’s common knowledge that Mather would have chosen a portrait of himself had it been painted yet. The pious, devil-hating William Phips stares askance at Lamont. She surveys more antiques, the stucco ornaments decorating the walls. Why is it men, especially Republican men, are so crazy about Frederic Remington? The governor has quite a collection of bronzes. Bronco Buster on his rampant horse. Cheyenne on a galloping horse. Rattlesnake about to bite a horse.
    â€œI appreciate your taking the time to see me, Howard.”
    He muses, “Twenty-three-karat gold gilding the State House dome instead of twenty-four. News to me, but anyway, symbolic, isn’t it? Perhaps to remind us that government isn’t quite pure.”
    But the governor is—a pure conservative Republican. White, early sixties, pleasant beatific face that belies the heartless hypocrite behind it. Balding, portly, avuncular enough so as not to appear overbearing or dishonest, unlike Lamont, who is assumed to be ball-breaking and deceitful because she’s beautiful, brilliant, enlightened, exquisitely dressed, strong, and quite vocal about her support and even tolerance of those less fortunate than herself. Simply put, she looks and sounds like a Democrat. And would still be one—in fact, would be governor—were it not for her entrusting her welfare to a direct descendant of that witchcraft hysteric Cotton Mather.
    â€œWhat should I do?” Lamont begins. “You’re the strategist. I admit I’m somewhat of a neophyte when it comes to politics.”
    â€œI’ve given this YouTube development some thought, and you may be surprised by what I have to say.” He puts down his pen. “I happen to view it not as a liability but a possibility. You see, Monique, the plain-and-simple truth is, I’m afraid your switching to the Republican party hasn’t had