Access to Power (9 page)

“Stewart Brown’s killing us. I need something on Lou Kay and I need it now. And while you’re at it, I want background on the Committee for the Restoration of American Values and Ethics. They’re on our side, but their spots eat shit like they’re from Mars.”

Mario smiled as Frank settled. He was a small, thin man in his early forties and wore a blue-gray herringbone sport jacket along with his mustache and glasses. He had been doing Frank’s negative research for the last five election cycles and was extremely thorough, the best in the business. Over the years, they had become friends.

“Lou Kay gets his car washed every Saturday,” Mario said. “He’s been going to the same carwash for the last ten years.”

“So what?”

“The carwash hires illegals. Indirectly, Lou Kay’s hired illegals for the last ten years.”

“This isn’t a House seat, Mario. I need better than that. Something real, or almost real.”

Mario paused a moment, then asked, “Why are we meeting here? Why not at the office like always?”

Frank lit a cigarette without answering.

“Are you okay, Frank?”

“The day Woody died,” he said in a quieter voice. “We argued, Mario. I threw him out of my office.”

“Woody was losing a lot of races. I did his research. Every time we met he was a wreck.”

“His client files aren’t where they’re supposed to be. His office isn’t right.”

“Washington’s the stickup capital of the world, Frank. What happened to Woody goes on every day. Maybe you’re just feeling guilty. About the way things were left, I mean.”

“Maybe.”

Frank waited for a couple to pass with their two young children. He guessed that they were on vacation, like so many other families who visit Washington to see the buildings, museums, maybe even take in an afternoon at the Capitol, watching their government in action. They seemed like a nice family. They looked innocent, and he hoped that they wouldn’t get mugged. When they were out of earshot, Frank turned back to Mario and lowered his voice.

“The cops can’t even explain how the kid who shot Woody got into the fucking office. Something’s not right.”

“Jesus, Frank.”

He saw Mario’s concern, but ignored it. Frank had spent the afternoon trying to satisfy his doubts, but couldn’t. He’d checked Woody’s filing cabinet again and sliced his finger open as the drawer swayed shut. He’d gone downstairs and examined the front door. The wood was intact, the paint not even scratched. Every window in the building was secure. Frank realized that his doubts were nothing more than loose ends. Why Woody’s current files were buried in the back of a drawer, or how Sonny Stockwell managed to get into a locked office without tools didn’t mean that the kid hadn’t murdered Woody. What bothered Frank was that both questions defied explanation. Even more troubling, Randolph and Grimes were seasoned detectives and didn’t seem concerned. In a political campaign, loose ends had a way of unraveling until they blew something a part. Usually a candidate’s life, along with their hopes and dreams.

Mario reached inside his jacket for a pen. “Before you go crazy with this, let me check these cops out. What are their names?”

Frank got rid of his cigarette, knowing that he had one more stop to make before he could go home. “Max Randolph and Ted Grimes,” he said.

*          *          *

It was a Baptist church set in a neighborhood where you kept your guard up. Poverty held onto the people who lived here with both fists and wouldn’t let go.

Frank could hear the choir practicing as he walked up the steps, cracked open the door and peeked inside. They were standing before the music director, trying to concentrate on their sheet music as they spotted him entering.

Frank found the pastor waiting for him in the last pew. He was a gentle giant of sorts; a big man with a wise face whose firm presence remained formidable despite his age. He wore expensive suits, the rings on both hands standing out against his dark complexion the way gold should. Reverend Doc Neilmarker had helped Frank and Woody with voter turnout for years. He controlled the poorest sections of the city and had a political reach that carried into Virginia and Maryland, even North Carolina. If anyone could help him, Frank knew that it would be Neilmarker.

He made his way down the aisle. Neilmarker rose, grabbing his hand and shaking it firmly.

“Frank Miles,” he said with a smile that betrayed his sadness. “It’s been awhile. Wish it could be under happier circumstances. How can I help?”

Frank met his eyes. “The kid had a friend, Doc. Alan Ingrams. I need to talk to him.”

Neilmarker nodded, thinking it over as he sat down and invited Frank to join him. “Woody was a good man,” he said.

Chapter 22

Frank made a right on New Hampshire Avenue and stopped at a diner off Dupont Circle. He ordered the house special, shepherd’s pie. When the plate arrived at half past ten, it looked like slop and had no real taste other than salt. But anything would have done, given the circumstances. He had been up for over forty hours, the length of most people’s entire work week. Getting food in his stomach was a question of mass, a matter of physics rather than chemistry or art.

When he finished, he paid the bill and walked up the block to a convenience store on the corner. He needed an emergency carton of cigarettes to get through all this, at least that’s what he kept telling himself. But when he put the carton down on the counter, the man at the register wearing a beard and turban asked to see his identification. Frank was forty and needed sleep. There were mirrors hanging from the ceiling so that the cashier could spot shoplifters. Judging from his own reflection, Frank looked like he had been tied to the back of a car and dragged through ten miles of stop-and-go traffic. But he laughed it off, showing the man his driver’s license, and walking out of the store with what they were calling drugs these days and enough matches to light every one of them.

He made the drive home in ten minutes. When he opened the front door, his dog wagged his tail in greeting and wanted to play.

“Good boy, Buddha. I’ve had a rough day, too. You want dinner or what?”

“I already fed him.”

He flinched, then saw Linda standing in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing a bathrobe and holding a carton of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I couldn’t sleep. I was having nightmares thinking about Woody. You don’t mind, do you?”

He didn’t mind and shook his head.

Walking into the kitchen, he grabbed a glass and filled it with ice. The bottle of vodka was in the freezer. As he poured a drink, he glanced at Linda standing before him in her bathrobe and decided that he’d better make the drink bigger. She no longer looked tired. He could smell his own shampoo in her hair, the freshness of his soap on her skin mixed with the scent of her body lotion. She must have just showered.

“You can’t sleep,” he said. “And I feel like I’m eighty years old. How did you get in?”

She smiled. “I kept my keys.”

“I did, too. What’s Hardly gonna say?”

“Jason’s in Wilmington with a client, but don’t get any ideas. I’m sleeping in the guest room.” When she noticed the size of his drink, she added, “You better go easy with that. The president called. He’s picking you up in twenty minutes.”

Frank nodded, following her into the study. It was just after eleven and he guessed that the president’s cabin fever had made a comeback.

“He got me on my cell phone,” he said, yawning.

As Linda curled up on the couch, Frank watched Buddha hop up beside her, snuggling his head into the fold of her legs. He sipped his drink and opened the cabinets to his media center, revealing three televisions switched to the network affiliates with the sound muted. This was the way he usually ended the night—scanning local news broadcasts for political ads. Once the news readers had informed everyone of the latest beating, rape, or murder, once they broke from the horror they were creating to the commercials that paid for it, only then did he bother to turn up the sound. Even his worried client had mentioned it. Local TV news just wasn’t news anymore.

“What’s so important that the president wants to talk to you this late at night?” Linda asked.

“He didn’t say.” Frank grabbed the remote, looking down at her as she settled. “Want to hear a good one?”

She hesitated a moment. “Is it dirty?”

“I’ll let you decide.”

She smiled at him and then nodded like she was ready. Frank gave her a long look, then sat down on the couch with Buddha between them.

“What if Woody’s murder didn’t have anything to do with a robbery, Linda? What if it was something else?”

She held the glance, her eyes as gentle as her voice. “I think you’re wishing it was something else because it seems like such a waste.”

She lowered her gaze and began petting Buddha. Frank glanced at the televisions. A spot came up on channel 4 and he hit the sound.

It was Stewart Brown’s second spot for Lou Kay. Another hatchet job on Mel Merdock’s good name. Two panels were flipping back and forth. Merdock’s photo was on each side, along with the word
Politician
on the front, and
Texas Millionaire
on the back. It didn’t matter that Mel Merdock had never run for office before. The word
politician
was a red flag to the common TV viewer. If someone ran for public office, then they must be a politician. Guilt by association. The pictures weren’t much better than the words. A shot of a post office box was included with a graphic drawn by hand indicating it as Merdock’s residence and only tie to the state of Virginia. Clearly, Stewart Brown had found his message and would be pounding it home until election day.

VOICE-OVER ANNOUNCER:

Mel Merdock, the politician, says that he believes in tax fairness for working-class families. But Mel Merdock, the Texas millionaire, tells the IRS that this P.O. Box is his current residence to avoid paying his fair share of taxes. Mel Merdock, the politician, says that he’s ready to represent Virginia in the U.S. Senate. But Mel Merdock, the Texas millionaire, says he’ll move to Virginia only if he’s elected. The truth is that we Virginians don’t need a politician or a Texas millionaire representing us in Washington. We need Virginia’s Lou Kay. He’s a working guy. A family man who shares our values. He’s one of us.

Frank hit the mute button with his thumb. The spot’s message felt like a knockout punch. Blood was running. When he turned to Linda, she was laughing at the shock of the blow.

“You’re right,” she said. “Merdock’s dead.”

Frank smiled back at her, shaking his head. The phone rang and he picked it up, knowing who it was.

“Did you see it?” he heard Merdock ask in a panicky voice. “Did you see it?”

Frank cleared his throat, looking at Linda as he lied. “Relax, Mel. It’s not that good. We’re gonna be fine.”

“You really think so?”

Linda was holding her hand over her mouth, fighting the laughter. Frank turned away, but the sound of fear in his client’s voice only made it worse.

“It’s part of the business,” he said into the phone.

“I think we need to meet, Frank. Tomorrow at the house. What’s your schedule like?”

“I’ll call you in the morning and let you know.”

“Oh, and Frank,” Merdock said, hedging. “Would you mind if my wife sits in?”

Frank grimaced, lying again. “It’s okay with me.”

He hung up the phone, grabbing his glass. He could feel Linda’s eyes on him.

“Your client isn’t handling it well,” she said. “Let me guess. The wife’s in.”

He smiled as he chewed it over. Linda knew the score as well as he did. When things start to get tricky, the wife knocks on the door. Then things get really tricky.

“She’s
in
,” he said, laughing.

A horn tapped outside—the president in his unmarked limo. Frank watched Linda petting Buddha. The dog had worked his head up from her legs onto her lap. Her hands were gently stroking the fur around his neck and ears. Buddha was loving it. Frank got up off the couch and checked his pack of cigarettes, realizing that he was jealous of his own dog.

“You’re smoking again,” she said.

“I’m not sure. The jury’s still out.”

“You were smoking last night and I saw the carton in the bag on the kitchen counter. You’d quit for almost two years.”

“One year, ten months and sixteen days. The week after we had that place on the water in Chincoteague.”

Linda looked back at the dog. And Frank was sorry that he’d mentioned it before it even came out of his mouth. They had rented a house in Chincoteague after the last election. It was fall on the Atlantic shore and they had the beaches to themselves. Cool and breezy weather, they spent their afternoons wrapped in sweaters and blankets, drinking wine and making love in the open air with long walks in between. On the days that it happened to rain, they burned wood in the fireplace and left out the walks. One week later, their relationship was over. That’s when Frank decided that the only way to kill the pain was to add another. He had quit smoking when Linda left him and it seemed to help. Like any addiction, the withdrawal destroyed his ability to concentrate on anything other than beating what he was craving.