Ice Shear by M. P. Cooley Page B

fireplace, while Hale stood behind us, keeping watch out the front window. The congresswoman wore small rimless glasses, a brown tweed skirt with a cream silk blouse, and real pearls, luminous against the freckles that dotted her pale Irish skin and offset her auburn hair. With my wool pants tucked into boots and pilled sweater, I felt like a Cossack.
    Rather than sitting with us, the congresswoman took her desk chair and swung it toward us, away from the wide oak desk that faced the backyard.
    â€œI’m sorry to keep you waiting,” she said, her voice clear and calm across the several feet that separated us. “I had to take the call. You know how it is.” No, I had no idea how a call from the president was. “Gloria, can you grab Phil? He’s working on the heavy bag, and I bet he’s lost track of time.”
    â€œHe boxes,” she explained, once Gloria had left. “Times, like now, when he doesn’t know what to do with himself, he takes himself down to the basement to his home gym and burns off all his extra energy. You’ll see, he’ll be calm when he gets here.”
    As introductions were made, I found myself watching the door for Phil Brouillette. In my research, he came off as nothing but your friendly neighborhood multimillionaire. He’d started at what was then Canal Paper at age fifteen as a barker, removing bark and dirt from the wood pulp used in manufacturing. Soon he was overseeing the department and then all operations. Eventually he bought it from the owners, an investment firm that wanted nothing to do with running a paper company after they’d raided the cash assets and retirement accounts. He moved quickly once in charge, turning the company into a digital document management center, and making it profitable for the first time in years. While I personally admired him because the sulfuric scent of paper manufacturing no longer came off the Mohawk River, the business press praised him for his self-taught ability to drag an old manufacturing company into the information age. He was considered a revolutionary; a revolutionary who, from everything I heard, liked to punch people.
    Dave had just run through the communications plan when Phil Brouillette hurtled in. He crossed the room to kiss his wife on the cheek before leaning against the desk behind her. He was a fireplug of a man, short with broad shoulders and thick forearms, perspiration stains ringing his sweatshirt—he didn’t look like he had the size to take down Marty Jelickson, but the bristle of energy off him made me think he had the will. His shoes and socks were off, the soaked edges of his sweatpants skimming surprisingly fine-boned feet. He reminded me of my uncles, strong men who smelled faintly of cigars and bourbon, and who always had a quarter for a Popsicle.
    The congresswoman introduced her husband and offered coffee, trying to give “another social call” mood to our interview, before getting down to business.
    â€œFirst, I need assurance that everything spoken here stays in this room,” she said. “My opponents would love to use this to crucify me politically, and I can’t have that.” Her voice was even, but she endlessly ran her finger over the edge of her glasses, as if feeling for flaws.
    â€œWe can guarantee that, ma’am,” Dave said. Amanda waited, I realized, for me, and I nodded assent as well.
    Satisfied, she put her glasses back on. “So, what can you tell us about the status of the investigation?”
    â€œYeah,” said Phillip Brouillette. “Who killed our daughter?”
    Dave launched into an edited version of the events of the day, leaving out details that even the parents didn’t need to know. While he talked, I watched as Amanda sized us up, taking in her opponents. She met my eyes, and I felt like I was in the principal’s office, which made sense: Amanda Brouillette was a former schoolteacher. Over the