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She rang the bell, irritated. Lydia knew she was here—Rebecca had to be buzzed in at the gate—and she should have been waiting with the door open.
Lydia opened the door. “Becca,” she said, giving her a kiss on the cheek. Rebecca would never let on that she despised the nickname. The only person who called her Becky (not Becca) was her husband, when they were in the privacy of their own home. In public she was Rebecca; her friends and colleagues all called her Rebecca. Except Lydia.
“Please tell me you have coffee,” Rebecca said.
“Of course.” Lydia led Rebecca to the nook off the kitchen, which had a full coffee bar, and poured a cup for each of them, put cream and sweetener on the table. Rebecca added a dollop of cream and honey into her cup and stirred with a small spoon. Sipped. Watched her closest and longest friend.
Lydia Zarian was an attractive fifty-four because she paid to be an attractive fifty-four. Her hair was professionally done weekly, her makeup flawless, her designer clothing stylish. The nose job and lip job and face-lift were top dollar—if Rebecca hadn’t known the woman for forty years, she wouldn’t be able to tell.
LA County Supervisor was a powerful position in a powerful city within a powerful state. In fact, the county board was the largest government entity within a state, serving nearly ten million people. Each board member represented the equivalent of 2.5 congressional districts, making them more important than the House of Representatives—at least here, in Los Angeles.
Lydia had served eight years in Congress, but quickly realized she would have more power as one of five than one of over four hundred. When the longtime supervisor of her district retired, she ran in a very crowded field. She owed her election to Rebecca and a few others—people who were happy to support Lydia because of what she could do for them. People who were happy continuing to support her, provided certain truths remained buried.
“Lydia,” Rebecca said, putting her cup down, “we have several problems and need to get everyone on the same page quickly.”
“I spoke with Theodore this morning,” Lydia said in a dismissive tone, “and he assures me that the little computer girl didn’t find anything important.”
“He’s lying to us.”
“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
“Someone is sniffing around Jonathan and Sunflower and Angel Homes. That puts both of us in the hot seat.”
“My campaign has polled this issue. No one cares about it. The complexity alone of any potential conflict of interest is nearly impossible to explain in a thirty-second sound bite, and there is nothing illegal in the grant process. Nothing. Dorothy has personally reviewed the legal paperwork, and the nonprofits all abide by state and federal law. You and I do not directly benefit, and therefore, we are above reproach.” Lydia smiled, leaned back and sipped her coffee as if her analysis put an end to the conversation.
Lydia looked at every issue through polling. It drove Rebecca up a wall. She’d always been that way. In high school, it was the perception more than the truth that Lydia cared about. That was how popularity contests were run, and Lydia was the most popular person wherever she went.
But Rebecca knew the law; she would most certainly be brought up in front of the Office of Professional Responsibility. And while she might be able to feign ignorance about what her son was doing, or what her sister was doing, say that she was completely hands-off on all of their businesses, she couldn’t walk away from murder. She may not have pulled the trigger—or in this case, plunged in the knife—but she would still go to prison.
The thought terrified her.
“Theodore overstepped this week,” Lydia said without sounding at all concerned, “but something had to be done about David. He was going to talk.”
“It’s not David I’m concerned about. I had a plan for him from the beginning...”
“Which your agent screwed up.”
Rebecca was not going to play this game with Lydia, but she couldn’t help but remind her that it could have been much, much worse. “Ben was supposed to monitor David, but your brother dropped the ball. I was the one who found out about the raid.”
“Only hours before it happened,” Lydia snapped. Then she sighed. “Why are we sniping at each other, Becca? We have been friends and partners far too long to bicker over this minor setback.”
Minor setback? Rebecca wanted to grab Lydia by the shoulders and shake sense into her. There was nothing minor about murder. “You’re right,” Rebecca said, trying to be conciliatory. “But I need to know what our exposure is. What did that girl take from Theodore’s office?”
“I don’t know for a fact that she has anything but theories, but she may have been able to re-create deleted data.”
“We paid a lot of money to have that information wiped. And a low-level IT drone was able to find it? How?”
Lydia dismissed her concern with an arrogant flip of her bejeweled wrist. “Even if she has it, there’s nothing illegal. A computer glitch. We’ll ride it out. I’m working on a statement to shield everyone.”
Lydia was technically correct that the grant process wasn’t illegal, but funneling money to friends and family through the grant process was unethical and could be seen as a conflict of interest. While there were a lot of people involved in different aspects of their enterprise who all had a reason to want to keep the process quiet, if word got out that Craig Dyson’s murder was connected to them, someone would talk.
Lydia couldn’t have all the potential threats killed off. She might control the media spin, and she might have high polling numbers, but her support would disappear if she was suspected of a capital crime.
And she was completely ignoring David Chen’s involvement. The city had paid him millions of dollars for use of his building—the building where he housed his employees.
Employees? They weren’t paid. You’re believing your own lies, Rebecca.
She really didn’t want to be in this position, but here she was.
