Justice Lost (Darren Street #3)(27)

The driver was a woman. She appeared to be about forty, a redhead with a creamy skin tone and barely noticeable freckles. Her eyes were clear and emerald green. Her hair was short and combed back from her forehead, held in place by mousse. Her jawline was taut and her cheekbones high. She had deep dimples in her cheeks. She smelled like a lilac bush and was nearly as pretty. She was wearing a black-and-white-striped silk blouse open at the neck and a tight black skirt that went to midthigh. Coming out of the skirt were legs that were long and slim and covered in dark hose.

“Nice car,” I said as I climbed in and sat down in a plush leather seat.

“You’re sweating on it,” she said.

“Sorry. I’ll wipe it off when I leave.”

I stuck my hand out and she took it.

“Darren Street,” I said.

“Claire Tate.”

“It’s nice to meet you.”

“My father’s good friend Elizabeth Tipton says you need some political advice and organization.”

“I’m blissfully ignorant of the process of getting oneself elected to public office,” I said. “Never dreamed I’d be doing this.”

Claire pulled out and began to drive. “Well, I’m not blissfully ignorant,” she said. “In fact, you might call me somewhat of an expert.”

“Is that right? How many elections have you been involved in?”

“Close to fifty, I’d say. I’ve been sort of a hired gun at times.”

I was surprised by the number of elections in which she’d been involved, given her age.

“What’s your winning percentage?” I said.

She turned and looked at me with those emerald eyes. Damn, she was pretty.

“Ms. Tipton told me you have a strong personality. She didn’t tell me you’re a smart-ass.”

“Legitimate inquiry,” I said. “Do you at least win more often than you lose?”

“I rarely lose elections that I become involved in,” she said. “When I do, it’s usually because of my candidate. Candidates do stupid things and think nobody will find out, but when you run for a public office, you open yourself up to the microscope. Have you done anything stupid in your past, Mr. Street?”

I nodded vigorously. “I’ve done an incredible amount of stupid things in my past,” I said. “I may be hopeless.”

She gave me a look of disdain and fixed her eyes back on the road.

“At least you’re running in a county that doesn’t care much about local elections,” she said. “Knox County is indifferent, for the most part. There are more than 330,000 adults of voting age, but only 225,000 of them have bothered to register to vote. On average, in a county election that involves the district attorney general, about 60,000 of those will actually cast a vote. So about twenty-five percent, one out of four, registered voters cares enough about the office to participate in the election.”

“That’s almost depressing,” I said.

Claire Tate spoke with a Southern accent, but it was refined, a bit like the high-society Atlanta or Charleston accents I’d heard on occasion during my life. I wasn’t really sure whether I liked it. It was pleasant enough, but it made her sound like a snob.

“It shouldn’t be depressing to you, Mr. Street,” she said, “because it means you only have to get about 30,000 votes to win, and since you missed the qualifying deadline and will be running a write-in campaign, the fewer votes you have to get, the better. I realize that 30,000 may sound like a lot, but like I said, we have 225,000 voters out there. It’s doable.”

She reached out and pressed her finger against the display on the dashboard. The glove compartment opened in front of me.

“There’s a manila envelope in there,” she said. “It’s for you. It’s a packet of materials you need to have filled out and in my hands in two days.”

“What kind of materials?” I said.

“A qualifying petition, a petition to allow you to become a write-in candidate, some personal information needed by the election commission to make sure you qualify as a candidate. My understanding is there might be some things that would disqualify you, but we’re going to keep those to ourselves.”

“What kind of things are you talking about? What would disqualify me?”

“Let’s just say that I wouldn’t suggest you write down anything about harming anyone.”

She was obviously talking about the murders, and I’d never laid eyes on this woman before. She said Granny sent her, but maybe a cop had intercepted a call or gotten lucky somehow. For all I knew, there could be a recorder running in the car or a hidden microphone transmitting what we were saying to cops in a surveillance van.

“Wait,” I said. “Stop the car. I want out.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said.

She was turning onto James B. White Parkway, and she stepped on the gas.

“I’m your friend,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said that. I apologize. Sometimes I just can’t help myself.”

She sounded sincere, but I wasn’t going to give her anything at all.

“I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about when you mention harming people,” I said.

“Of course you don’t,” she said. “Good for you.”