Capitol Murder (4 page)

“Yes,” she answered as she tried to keep her voice from shaking. Millie’s good mood disappeared and fear gripped her. She had brought the memo at Clarence’s request as she had once before. She felt sick. If she was caught, she could be disbarred. She might even go to jail.

Clarence asked a guard to step in. Millie slipped the memo through the slot for legal papers. The guard flipped through it. When he was convinced that contraband was not hidden between the pages he handed the memo to Clarence and left the room. Clarence read the memo and made several comments. Then he slid it back through the slot and Millie put it in her attaché case. They talked for another half hour before she left.

Millie thought she might throw up as she walked through the prison to the parking lot. When she was locked in her car, she rested her head on the steering wheel until the tension drained from her body. As soon as she was able, she drove away from the penitentiary. She didn’t stop until she was back in Portland, and she didn’t separate the pages of the memo until she was in her office with the door closed.

Clarence was a master of sleight of hand. Even though Millie had been watching him the whole time, she had missed seeing Clarence slip the envelope out of the file with his legal papers and into the memo. She remembered his warning to wear gloves when she handled the envelope so she wouldn’t leave fingerprints. It was addressed to Brad Miller like the other envelope she’d smuggled out of the penitentiary.

On the evening of the presidential election over a year ago, Millie had waited in the parking lot of Miller’s apartment complex in the dark with her lights off as the rain beat down on the roof of her car. As soon as Miller and Ginny Striker drove off to their election-night parties, Millie had slipped the envelope under Miller’s door and driven away. There had been no repercussions then and Clarence assured her that there would be none this time. All he was asking her to do was mail a letter.

Chapter Three

B
rad Miller had not been kidding when he told Dana Cutler and Jake Teeny that he hoped the rest of his life was dull as dirt. And Brad knew about dull as dirt. He had grown up and gone to college in the less than exciting suburbs of Long Island, then studied law in Manhattan. Living in New York sounds exotic if you’re from Nebraska or South Dakota, but it is much less exciting if you’re on a strict budget and studying most of each day. Brad had always been a straight arrow, so not once during his three years in school did he snort cocaine with swimsuit models while partying all night with the rich and famous at a new, in club. In fact, his only contact with drugs and wild goings-on occurred while reading police reports during an internship at the Manhattan DA’s office during the summer between his first and second year in law school.

Brad fled the East Coast when his fiancée dumped him shortly before the wedding that was supposed to take place after law school graduation. What seemed tragic at first turned into a blessing in disguise when he met Ginny Striker, another associate toiling in Portland’s modern-day salt mine, Reed, Briggs, Stephens, Stottlemeyer and Compton.

Brad also knew the flip side of dull as dirt. From the moment a sadistic senior partner ordered him to file an appeal in the sure loser, pro bono case of
Clarence Little v. Oregon
, his life had consisted of one terrifying incident after another. Once his investigation into Clarence’s case brought down President Farrington, he thought he’d find peace and quiet clerking in the sedate halls of the United States Supreme Court, but once again he’d almost lost his life—twice.

So Brad was not lying when he said he craved boredom. He was madly in love with his wife, and his happiest moments were when he and Ginny, dressed in sweats, held hands while watching old movies on television.

Brad and Ginny lived on the third floor of a four-story redbrick apartment house on Capitol Hill. Their apartment was walking distance from the Senate and a longer walk or a Metro ride from the Department of Justice. They had moved in a little over a year ago, when Brad started clerking at the Supreme Court. They had been able to afford the rent because Ginny was pulling down a six-figure salary at one of D.C.’s biggest law firms. The rent was less affordable now that Ginny worked at the DOJ, but they loved the location, the exposed brick walls, and the small garden in the back.

The day after Judge Case handed down his decision, Brad was getting ready to leave for work while Ginny finished her breakfast in their roomy kitchen. Brad was slipping into his suit jacket when he saw the color drain from Ginny’s face.

“Did you know about this?” Ginny asked, holding up page 3 of the
Washington Post
.

Brad leaned forward and read,
COURT REVERSES CLARENCE LITTLE CONVICTIONS AND DEATH SENTENCES
. His stomach did a swan dive.

“No,” he said. “I haven’t been involved in Clarence’s case for over a year.”

Brad reached across the kitchen table and took the paper from his wife.

“I’m not surprised,” Brad said as soon as he finished the story. “They had to give him new trials once it became clear that he’d been framed in the
Erickson
case.”

“He won’t get out, will he?” Ginny asked. Brad could hear the fear in her voice.

“I don’t know. They convicted him every time he was tried. The question is how great an impact the evidence from
Erickson
had on the jurors in the other trials. But I don’t think we have anything to worry about even if he’s acquitted. Clarence and I got along pretty well. He knows I’m responsible for his conviction in
Erickson
being thrown out. I believe he thinks of me as a friend, and he has no reason to hurt us.”

“He’s an insane serial killer, Brad. He doesn’t need a reason. He was nice to you because he wanted you to work hard for him, but he’d kill either one of us without shedding a tear.”

“That’s true in the abstract, but why would he want to hurt me? Clarence kills women.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m a woman.”

Brad smiled. “Actually, I have noticed. But you’re not the type of woman Clarence fixates on. All of his victims were teenagers or in their early twenties. You’re an old married woman.”

Ginny cast a stern look at Brad. “Are you’re telling me I’m over the hill?”

“I admit that I married you as a humanitarian act.”

“Oh well. Since you married me as an act of charity, I guess you won’t be interested in having mind-bending, erotic sex tonight.”

Brad couldn’t help smiling at the thought. “It’s true that I’m totally uninterested in sleeping with you, but now that we’re married, I feel I have an obligation to keep you sexually satisfied.”

Ginny cocked an eyebrow. “We’ll see about tonight, buster.” Then she got serious again.

“You really think we’ll be okay?” she asked.

Brad gave Ginny a reassuring smile. “I do. And it’s going to be a while before we have to think about Clarence Little, anyway. The state will appeal the judge’s ruling. Then, if his decision is upheld, there will be the new trials. That will take years, and he’ll probably get convicted. Don’t let Mr. Little spoil your day.”

Ginny put her plate and coffee cup in the dishwasher and went into the bathroom to finish putting on her makeup. As soon as she was out of sight, Brad’s encouraging smile disappeared. Well over a year ago, on the evening of the presidential election, he and Ginny had returned to their apartment in Portland in a raging downpour. Ginny had gone to the bathroom to dry her hair, and Brad had started to go into the kitchen to put up water for tea when he’d spotted a white envelope on the entryway floor. His name and address had been handwritten, and there had been no return address. The letter was from Clarence Little.

Dear Brad,

I knew I was right to trust you. I’ve just learned that my conviction for the murder of the Erickson girl is going to be set aside and that’s all due to your hard work. I’ll still be executed, but I can live with that, if you’ll pardon the pun. I’d invite you to the execution, but I know you’re squeamish. My only regret is that I didn’t get to go to court to overturn the conviction. I might have seen my lovely pinkie collection one last time. Oh well, one can’t have everything. Good luck on your new job and your marriage to the lovely Ginny. She’s a sweetheart. Too bad I won’t get a chance to know her.

Your friend,

Clarence.

Brad had destroyed the letter immediately. He knew Ginny would be upset if she thought Clarence was interested in her. What Brad didn’t understand was how Little was able to learn anything about Ginny. The letter had been hand-delivered, so the obvious answer was that the person who had delivered the letter had told Little about Ginny. Brad had decided against confronting his ex-client. It was better to ignore him.

Even locked up on death row, three thousand miles away, Clarence Little still scared the hell out of Brad. The idea that he might gain his freedom was terrifying. Brad hadn’t lied to Ginny when he said he believed that Little appreciated what he’d done for him. But Ginny had been right. Little was a conscienceless sociopathic serial killer whose mood changed with the wind. There was no telling what he would do if he was released from custody.

Chapter Four

U
nless you’ve stood for public office, it’s almost impossible to appreciate the rigors of running for election. On Tuesday afternoon, United States Senator Jack Carson rushed from a session of the Appropriations Committee to Dulles International Airport for a three-thousand-mile cross-country trip to Oregon. As soon as the plane landed, he boarded a small plane bound for Pendleton, a city of sixteen thousand in the eastern part of the state. After the Pendleton fund-raiser, the senator brainstormed with his advisers in his hotel room before exhaustion forced him into a deep sleep. His six
A.M
. wake-up call shocked him into consciousness so he could be interviewed on a phone-in radio show. When the show was over, Carson vacuumed down an Egg McMuffin and a container of black coffee during a car ride to a local television station. Then it was five hours on the road, broken up by a lunch with supporters in a small Oregon town. During the rest of the ride, the senator’s cell phone was pressed to his ear as he tried to coax money from his supporters while he was driven to an evening fund-raiser in a ballroom at the downtown Hilton in Portland.

By the time Carson finished his speech, posed for photo ops, and glad-handed the guests, he was punch drunk, starving, and running on fumes. But he still had to appear enthralled by Harry Butcher’s tedious saga of his battle with the fifth hole of his country-club golf course, a tale that seemed to go on as long as an audio version of
War and Peace
.

“And when I climbed up out of that damn bunker and trekked up to the green, everyone was clapping,” Butcher concluded. “The ball had hopped into the hole for a par. Can you believe it?”

Carson faked a hearty laugh and clapped Butcher on the shoulder. The $2,000 Butcher had forked over to attend the fundraiser gave him the right to bore the senator to tears.

Carson looked over Butcher’s shoulder and saw Martha chatting up a wealthy doctor and her socially connected spouse under a banner with large red letters blaring
SEND JACK BACK
. His wife hated these dinners, but she was a trouper. Butcher asked Jack a question about business taxes that he only half heard. As he finessed an answer, he saw a woman approaching, and the fog that enshrouded his brain suddenly cleared.

Carson had been a nerd in high school and college, succeeding in the classroom but failing miserably with women. Getting laid had been one of his main reasons for getting involved in college politics, but politics had not helped his sex life much until he was elected to national office and discovered that for certain women, being with a United States senator was an aphrodisiac.

Carson was of medium height with a slender build, curly brown hair, and pale blue eyes, someone you would pass on the street without a second glance. He had met his wife in a chemistry class at Cornell. She was attractive in a pleasant sort of way, and their marriage was conventional, with two children, a golden retriever named McGovern, and an estate in the country, purchased with part of a fortune Jack had made from software he had created during the dot-com boom.

Jack loved his wife, but he’d always harbored certain desires he could not reveal to Martha, desires that some of his mistresses were willing to indulge. Two years ago, a fling with a young lobbyist had ended badly enough to scare him straight. Lucas Sharp, Carson’s childhood friend and his chief aide and fixer, had taken care of the matter. The senator suspected money was involved, but Lucas had done something else he would not discuss with Jack on the theory that what his boss didn’t know couldn’t be testified to in a grand jury. Whatever Lucas had done had worked, because the girl moved back to Indiana two days after Sharp met with her.

Jack had stayed on the straight and narrow after that unnerving fiasco, but the mere sight of this woman in her tight black dress caused a raft of fetishes to sail out of the senator’s subconscious. If his PR firm had concocted a slogan for her, it would have been SEX, set off in blazing scarlet letters. She had high cheekbones, a dark complexion that hinted at Middle Eastern ancestry, silky black hair that fell past her shoulders, lightly muscled, long, tanned legs, and a self-confident air. She waited patiently as Carson got rid of Butcher, then walked close enough for Jack to smell her perfume before extending her hand.

“I don’t believe we’ve met, Senator. My name is Jessica Koshani.”

Carson took the hand willingly. It was warm to the touch, and he felt a slight shock of sexual pleasure from the contact.

“Pleased to meet you,” was the best he could come up with.

“I loved your speech,” Koshani said. “You’re one of the few voices of reason in Middle East policy.”