Governor Jillian Goff pulled on dark knit gloves as she
walked across the lobby of the statehouse flanked by the
president of the Maine Senate and two Executive Protection
Unit officers. Another security officer opened the door, and
she stepped out into the bright, cold January day. The sky
overhead, between the Capitol and the state office building,
shone a vivid blue. Several hundred people had crowded into
the limited space. Jillian waved as she walked across the
paving stones to the microphones, touched that so many had
come out to see her just minutes after she took the oath of
office.
She smiled and looked into the television camera with the
red light. "I want to thank all of you, the people of Maine,
for choosing me as your new governor. The past few months
have been hectic, but they've been good preparation for
what's ahead. Together we can bring Maine into a productive
new era. I look forward to—"
A muffled crack made her freeze. Something zinged
past her ear, and a small, sharp object struck her cheek.
Someone seized her shoulders from behind and shoved her down
behind the bank of microphones.
"Steady, ma'am. Keep still until we secure the area."
She'd only been governor for fifteen minutes, and an officer
from the EPU was holding her against the cold stone pavement
before the door of the Capitol. Her right cheek stung.
People shouted and scrambled about. A puff of white vapor
formed in the air each time she let out a shallow breath.
Her pulse thudded in her temples, and her knee hurt, folded
beneath her on the freezing stone.
She turned her head, but that wasn't much better. Her
cheekbone contacted with the icy pavement and she shivered.
"W-what happened?"
"Shooter. Are you all right?"
"Yes."
Jillian swallowed hard. This morning, the chief officer of
the Maine State Police, Colonel Gideon Smith, had urged her
to wear a bulletproof vest beneath her coat during the press
conference, and she had laughed at him. "When was the last
time a Maine governor was attacked?"
"I take your safety seriously, ma'am," Smith had replied.
I should have listened to him.
Another man came and kneeled beside her.
"Are you all right, ma'am?"
"I think so." The cheek that was pressed against the stone
still stung.
"We're going to help you up and get you inside. We'll take
you right up to your office. Do you understand?"
She nodded. She could hear the surge of the crowd and shouts
in the distance.
"All right, then." The weight on her back lifted as the man
who had hovered over her straightened, and she struggled to
her knees.
"Quickly, now." The officers pulled her up and urged her
toward the main door. A few photographers ran alongside and
snapped pictures. Inside, a dozen people huddled against the
walls, staring at her. Policemen surrounded her on all
sides—plainclothesmen of the EPU, uniformed state troopers
and Capitol security officers—but still she felt exposed.
Anyone could have walked into the building before the press
conference. She looked ahead, searching for things out of
place, for people who didn't belong.
Six officers squeezed into the elevator with her. The rest
headed for the stairs. So far, the emergency plan was
functioning just as they'd laid it out to her a few weeks
earlier.
"You're bleeding, ma'am," said one of the female detectives.
Jillian pulled off her gloves and touched her right cheek
gingerly, then drew her hand away and looked at it. Her
fingertips were stained with blood.
"I don't think it's serious."
"We'll have your doctor come look at it immediately," the
tall detective on her other side said.
When they emerged on the floor above, Colonel Smith waited
by the elevator, panting.
"Governor Goff! I'm so sorry." He took her elbow and guided
her swiftly through the outer office and into the inner
sanctum. Her private office. She'd only been in it a few
times, during the last governor's term. Half a dozen EPU
members and four uniformed troopers followed and took up
positions at every door and window. Several more were
ordered to stand guard in the outer office. The main door
closed, and Smith locked it.
"Have a seat, ma'am. We'll get you out of here as quickly as
possible, but not until we've secured the area."
"I understand." Jillian's chest tightened as she walked
toward the huge walnut desk. At least her calf-length skirt
and wool coat covered her trembling knees. She sank into the
padded leather chair behind the desk and lowered her head
into her hands. She winced as she touched her cheek again.
Smith held out a clean white handkerchief. "I'm sorry,
Governor. We've called for your physician. She'll be here
momentarily."
Jillian raised her chin. "I'm fine, Colonel. Just find out
who did this."
Detective Dave Hutchins hurried to the Executive Protection
Unit's afternoon briefing. The first attempt on a sitting
Maine governor's life in many years promised to keep the
unit busy.
"Were you there this morning?" Detective Penny Thurlow asked
as he slid into a chair beside her.
"No," Dave said, "but I've seen it on TV at least ten times."
Penny nodded. "Me too. An assassination attempt on
inauguration day. Unheard of."
Lieutenant Wilson, their immediate boss, briefed the
officers. Heads turned as Colonel Gideon Smith, head of the
Maine State Police, entered and took a seat near the door.
Wilson wound down his spiel and nodded at Smith. "And now
I'll let the colonel take the floor."
The officers sat up straighter as Smith walked to the
lectern. "Men—and women—" he nodded deferentially to Penny
and Stephanie Drake, the two female detectives in the
unit"—I want to commend you and your colleagues for your
exemplary performance today. Thanks to this unit, the
governor of Maine is safe and sound at the Blaine House and
will begin her official duties on schedule. It's up to you
to keep the governor and her family safe, and to find out
who made the attempt on her life. I don't need to tell you
that this investigation is priority one for your unit. Any
resources within my reach are at your disposal. Carry on."
The colonel turned on his heel and left the room. Dave
glanced over at Penny. "Bet he wishes he was still doing
field work, not pushing paper."
She nodded. "I'm on duty at the governor's office tomorrow.
Can't wait."
Lieutenant Wilson resumed his place behind the lectern and
opened a folder. "Assignments have been juggled due to this
incident. We don't know yet who fired at the governor this
morning. That means we've got to dig deeper into her past
than any of her political opponents did during the last
year, and that's pretty deep. We'll also reconstruct the
shooting. We're reasonably sure this wasn't a sniping. The
bullet came from the level of the crowd."
Dave leaned forward to listen, curious to know where he
would fit into the aftermath.
"The Inaugural Ball has been canceled." A murmur spread
across the room, and Wilson held up one hand. "It's
unprecedented, but the governor's advisors were adamant. She
should not go out in public until the situation is under
control. So, those who drew duty for that event will have
different assignments for tonight."
He named the officers who were currently on duty at the
governor's mansion and assigned a new shift to relieve them.
"The officers personally guarding Governor Goff will stagger
their hours to preserve continuity. We don't want to leave
any leeway for someone who's looking for a chance to get at
the governor. We're also increasing manpower to guard her
until further notice, so expect some overtime. We'll draw on
state troopers for extra guards around the Blaine House as
long as we feel it's warranted."
Dave drew duty investigating the shooting—his strong suit.
But he envied the officers who would guard Jillian Goff. Not
only did she carry herself with an air of sophisticated
charm— class, Dave thought—but her file said she was
intelligent and a gifted attorney. Since her husband's
death, she'd thrown herself into the legislative process. He
had to admire that.
He left the duty room, eager to get on with his assignment:
interviewing Jillian's partners at the Waterville law firm
where she had practiced before the election. Half a dozen
other detectives would conduct interviews elsewhere, and
their collective findings would give them a picture of the
governor's relationships with the people closest to her.
The half-hour drive gave him time to think about the
shooting. None of the officers on duty that morning had seen
the gunman—the shooter had melted into the crowd.
How could it be that no one had seen the weapon or noticed
the person who fired it? He clenched his hands on the
steering wheel of his pickup. Easy. Every eye was on the
glamorous new governor. The shooter had done the deed—not
well, or he would have hit Jillian—and then stood his ground
as part of the appalled audience. When the people panicked
and fell back, away from the Capitol's public entrance, the
person who wielded the gun went with them.
The shooter must have eased toward the fringe of the crowd.
As soon as the ranks broke, he'd walked away to a vehicle
parked on a side street or maybe down on State Street. Not
in the Capitol complex parking lots, and not in the state
employees' garage half a block up the street. Officers had
secured those areas quickly and taken names and license
plate numbers of everyone who left after the shooting. The
massive job had taken hours, and a lot of people were
unhappy about the delays.
Dave pulled into the parking lot at the office of Dandridge,
Scribner, Harris & Goff. The partners were expecting
him. They introduced themselves and took him into a
conference room with a long, polished table.
"Terrible thing," said Martin Dandridge, the gray-haired
senior partner. He offered Dave coffee, which he declined.
Margaret Harris, golden-haired and tanned, smiled at him,
but the smile wavered. "When will the police know who did this?"
"We're doing everything we can." Dave studied her face. "I
understand the governor's late husband, Brendon Goff, was
also a member of this firm."
"Yes." Ms. Harris's mouth skewed into a grimace. "It was
awful when Brendon died. He and Jillian met in law school.
After a few years working with public prosecutors, they
applied here together, and we brought them into the firm at
the same time. Brilliant young couple."
"They were with us for five years or so before Brendon
decided to run for Senate," Dandridge said. He shook his
head. "Such a pity. If I'd known he was going to get himself
killed, I'd have advised him to give up skiing. But he loved
it. And you never know, do you? You just never know."
The other partners murmured their assent.
Dave cleared his throat. "So Jillian stepped into his seat
in the Senate and then won reelection."
"Correct," said Dandridge. "And now our shining junior
partner is governor of Maine. I can hardly believe it."
The third partner, Jon Scribner, leaned forward. "We took
this morning off to go to Augusta and see her sworn in."
"So you were all there?" Dave looked around at the three of
them.
Margaret nodded. "We closed the office for the day. We only
came in this afternoon because you called. Poor Jillian."
She shook her head. "I tried to call her a couple of hours
ago, but they wouldn't put my call through."
"The governor is under very close guard," Dave said.
"Well, that's good, I suppose."
Dave eyed them keenly. All had been at the scene of the
shooting. And all knew Jillian well. How well? Well enough
to want her dead?
Jillian ate dinner in the family dining room with her mother
and her personal assistant, Naomi Plante. The guards
outnumbered the diners, which she found disconcerting. Her
mother, however, chattered on uninhibited as the staff
served their meal.
Jillian realized she would have to get used to being waited
on. She'd lived alone since Brendon died, eating a majority
of her meals out of the microwave, so the hovering domestic
staff put her a little on edge. Once the meal was over, she
could retire to her private rooms with her mother, away from
the watchful eyes. But even then, the security guards and
staff would be only steps away.
She had hardly eaten all day, and she found the food
delicious. Menu planning was one of the duties she had
decided to delegate to her assistant. Sometime soon she'd
have to talk to Naomi about meals, but right now, other
thoughts occupied her.
Her mother might think she could distract her by talking
about the décor, the food and the next week's schedule, but
Jillian's mind kept skipping back to the shooting. Who
wanted to kill her? Every time she recalled the morning's
events, her bewilderment morphed into anger. She took a deep
breath and focused on her mother.
"It's such a pity they canceled your ball."
"Oh, I know," Naomi said quickly. "You bought such a
beautiful dress, Mrs. Clark." She turned to Jillian. "And
your gown! Will you ever wear it?"
Jillian shrugged. "There'll be another event." She chuckled.
"I never was much of a dancer, anyway."
"Oh, but I love to dance," Naomi protested.
Jillian did feel a bit of regret for her mother's sake and
Naomi's. Both had talked about the ball for weeks. Naomi
bought her gown the day after election day, as soon as the
ball was a sure thing. So much for the sure thing. It would
have been the most prestigious event of Naomi's life,
Jillian realized. Her mother's desolation, however, seemed
more a cover for her anxiety about Jillian's welfare.
"Well, I'm glad they're looking after you," Vera said. "If
that means no ball for you, then I guess we just stay home
and turn into pumpkins. But it's such a waste. So many
people booked rooms in town and bought special clothes. And
all that food!"
"That's true," Jillian said. "I wish I could do something
about that. I suggested a brief appearance, but the police
said getting me there for a few minutes would be as risky as
a full evening out, and the organizers felt they should
cancel it outright."
Her mother's shoulders drooped. "I do hope they can keep you
safe, Jillian."
"They're trained for that, Mom."
They lingered over dessert and coffee without mentioning her
narrow escape again. The lead officer on duty entered the
dining room and approached her.
"Ma'am, Detective David Hutchins is here. He's one of the
chief investigators of the incident. Would you like to see
him now?"
"Certainly." Jillian pushed back her chair. "Show him into
my private office upstairs, please." She wondered if that
was the proper place for an interview with a police officer.
Maybe she should take him into one of the public rooms
across the hall—the sunroom or James G. Blaine's old study,
for instance. But the windows in those rooms fronted on
Capitol Street.
Even inside the well-guarded house, she felt vulnerable.
This morning's incident had shaken her more than she'd
admitted to anyone.