Capitol Murder (11 page)

Ben reared backward, blinking, wiping the stinging liquid from his eyes. Great, he thought,
now I’m down to two suits. Christina started to rise, probably planning to slug him, but Ben
waved her back into her seat. The last thing they needed was salacious publicity on the eve of
trial.

“So,” Ben said, looking up at him, “you’re . . . my dry cleaner?”

“I’m Darrin Cooper—Veronica Cooper’s father, you son of a bitch.” He spoke with such venom
that spittle flew from his teeth. “Isn’t it interesting that you didn’t know? You’ve spent months
looking for anything that might get that goddamn rapist off the hook, but you never bothered to
talk to the victim’s family.”

“Actually,” Christina interjected, “I did contact Ms. Cooper’s family almost immediately after
we took the case. I spoke to her mother; her sister declined to be interviewed.” She paused. “I
was told that Veronica was raised in DC by her mother—that her parents were divorced and her
father lived on the other coast and hadn’t seen her for years.”

“What the hell difference does that make?” He glared at Christina, bitter and angry. Ben
not-so-subtly moved her wineglass to the opposite side of the table. “She was still my little
girl.”

Ben tried to sound comforting. “Sir, I’ve never had children myself, but I can only imagine
how devastating it must be to lose one.”

“Don’t give me that fake sympathetic bullshit. I won’t take it from the man who’s defending my
little Ronnie’s killer.”

“Sir, you don’t know that.”

“The hell I don’t. Everyone in the country knows it.”

“If I’ve learned anything in my years of practice, it’s that appearances can be
deceiving.”

“Don’t try to bullshit me. Don’t you dare try to bullshit me. You think I don’t know why that
monster hired you, Mr. Fancy High-Dollar Lawyer?”

Christina stifled a guffaw.

“You think I don’t know what goes on in courtrooms? Listen to me, buddy. I know the way the
world works. I’ve watched Court TV.”

“I can understand your anger, sir. But I have to think that, deep down in your heart, you
don’t want revenge. You want to know the truth.”

“I know the truth!” he bellowed, more than loud enough to attract the attention of the guests
at the three other tables in the room, not to mention their waiter and the maître d’. Both were
hovering on the fringe of the George II room, unsure how to handle the disturbance. “I know that
goddamn rapist killed my little girl!”

“Look,” Ben said. He was starting to lose some patience himself. He’d come here to plot
strategy, not to deal with importunate relatives of the deceased. “I’m sure you didn’t like what
you saw in the video, but there is no evidence that their relationship was not consensual. To the
contrary, it was obvious from her attire and manner and language that she was welcoming sex. She
just didn’t—”

“You filthy pervert!” He lunged. Ben dove out of his chair. Cooper narrowly missed him,
smashing the wicker chair, then crashing to the floor.

That was more than enough opening for the maître d’ to intervene, assisted by two large men
who were either bouncers or the burliest guys this classy joint could find on the premises. They
laid their hands firmly on Cooper’s shoulders, raised him to his feet, and dragged him away. He
was dazed, but not so much that he couldn’t speak. “My little girl would never do that for
anyone. He must’ve forced her to dress like that. Must’ve had some kind of hold on her. She would
never act that way. Never!”

He continued ranting, all the way through the George III and the George Washington rooms,
until happily Ben could hear him no more.

“Think he represents the viewpoint of the general populace,” Ben asked, “or just those
immediately related to the victim?”

“Let’s hope the latter,” Christina said. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just glad he didn’t meet us in a dark alley somewhere. Which would’ve been the
logical thing to do,” he added, pausing thoughtfully, “if his goal really had been to hurt
me.”

The inside of the escort service was disappointingly bland—sparse and functional. Where was
the red wallpaper, the overstuffed sofa, the piano player with a garter around his upper arm?
Bordellos just weren’t what they used to be. Or weren’t what they used to be in John Wayne
movies, at any rate. Lucille’s room was equally inadequate—no lace, no vibrating or rotating bed,
no mirrors on the ceiling. Resembled nothing on earth so much as a thirty-dollar room at a Ramada
Inn. All very disappointing . . .

Except for Lucille herself. Lucille did not disappoint.

She was, as advertised, a large-bosomed woman, but then she was large all around. Not fat, but
no petite supermodel, which was okay by Loving. He preferred women who still remembered how to
use a knife and fork. She had huge curly red hair, like Christina’s times three, done up in a
sort of B-52 style all on the top of her head. She had wrapped a bathrobe around herself before
he came in. Judging from the lines under the terry-cloth robe—or relative lack thereof—he
adjudged that there was not much in the way of clothing on her. She was young, maybe thirty, but
there was a profound weariness about her eyes. Loving guessed that she’d been plying this trade
for half her short life.

For someone who’d “had a bad experience that night,” she was uncommonly friendly. But then,
Loving had noticed, girls with freckles were always friendly.

As soon as the dragon lady closed the door behind them, he opened his mouth to frame a
question—but Lucille stopped him flat.

“Money up front. Two hundred big ones.”

Loving blinked. “Did she explain that I just wanted to talk?”

“So what else is new? Lot of guys just want to talk. Some of them even come in here and sleep.
Doesn’t matter. I get paid by the hour, not the act.”

“And you get two hundred bucks an hour?”

“Is that so much? The lawyers in this town charge more. And don’t provide nearly so much
service.”

Well, he couldn’t argue with that one. With some regret, he pulled out his wallet and laid the
money on the table. He couldn’t wait till he had to explain this expense to Jones.

“Good,” Lucille said, tucking the money into her robe pocket. “Now where’s my girl Amber?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. I’m tryin’ to find her.”

“You a cop?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Then what?”

“Do I hafta say?”

“No. And I don’t have to talk, either.”

Loving frowned. “You heard about the Veronica Cooper murder?” He saw a light in her eyes that
told him the answer was in the affirmative. “I’m workin’ for an attorney investigatin’ the case.”
He opted not to identify which one.

“So what do you want from me?”

“I . . . I think Amber and Veronica were friends, right?”

Lucille didn’t answer.

“I was hopin’ Amber might be able to tell me somethin’ about Veronica, somethin’ we don’t
already know, maybe even about who did it or why she was killed.”

“Why she was killed? Isn’t it obvious?” Lucille looked at him strangely. “You must be working
for Glancy.”

“My boss is, yeah. And he doesn’t believe Glancy did the deed.”

“I’m sure he’s being paid good money to believe that.”

Loving shook his head firmly. “If my boss says he thinks someone is innocent, then he thinks
someone is innocent. And he’s usually right.”

“So that’s it? You’re just looking to get your guy off?”

Loving hesitated. Obviously, something more was needed to loosen her tongue. “Well, I’m a
little concerned. More than a little.”

“About what?”

“About Amber.” He took a shot. “Are you worried, too?”

Lucille slowly crossed the room, sat on the edge of her high-stacked bed, and crossed her
legs, revealing a hint of hosiery. “Yeah. I’m real worried. I told the cops I was worried. But
since no one’s found a body, no one seems to care.”

“I care,” Loving said, seizing his opportunity. “And if you’ll tell me what you know, I’ll do
my best to find Amber. That’s a promise.”

Lucille nodded. “Fair enough. Where do we start?”

“How do you know Amber?”

“Amber works here. Used to, anyway.”

Loving felt his heart skip a beat. No wonder the dragon lady downstairs let him in.
“Amber—worked for the escort service?”

“Is that so surprising?”

“Well—if she was runnin’ with a congressional intern . . .”

“They were kids. Very nonjudgmental. Too stupid to be judgmental, really. I don’t know how
they all hooked up, that whole gang, but they had fun together, and that was what mattered to
them. They didn’t care what anyone did to earn their bread. In fact, I suspect some of Amber’s
friends had the misguided notion that this was a glamorous and exotic line of work.”

“And it ain’t?” Loving said, unable to resist scrutinizing the line of her figure beneath the
robe.

“No, it ain’t. What, were you expecting to see Julia Roberts when you walked through the door?
You can forget all that
Pretty Woman
BS. I’ll grant you, this is not the worst way to
make a living. We’re in the service industry, that’s how I see it. We provide a service that is
apparently much needed. Facilitating a valuable social exchange between two consenting adults.”
She paused. “But it isn’t glamorous. And you’re not going to end up with Richard Gere.”

Loving drew her back to the main subject. “So you knew Amber well?”

“We had adjoining rooms. I was like her mother. I’m—a little older than she is.”

“You don’t look older.”

“You flatterer.” She slapped his knee with well-lacquered fingernails. “I knew we’d get along.
I can make people, you know? And I liked you from the moment you walked into the room. Trusted
you. I can’t say I get that feeling very often. But in my line of work, you get to know what
people are like. Develop an instinct for it. You have to, if you’re going to survive long.”

“I’ll bet. So you knew Amber. And she knew Veronica?”

“They were friends. There were four of them, most nights—Veronica, Amber, Colleen, and . . .
oh, what was her name? The mousy one.”

“Beatrice?”

“Yeah, that was it. Anyway, they liked to do the nightlife thing. But toward the end . . . I
don’t know. I think maybe they were getting into something weird. Kinky, maybe.”

And this coming from a woman who worked at an escort service. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. And I asked, more than once. But Amber never gave me any details. Redecorated
her room, though.”

“Can I take a look?”

“Sorry. Boss lady had it all cleared out after Amber was AWOL for two weeks. But it was lots
of candles and stars and weird symbols. Used a lot of red paint. Wasn’t good for business—creeped
the customers out, at least the ones who were sober.”

“What kinda symbols?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The main one was like this.” Using her index finger, she drew a small loop
in the air, then crossed the bottom of the loop with two short lines. “I don’t know what that was
supposed to mean. And she had this weird statue that she kept over her bed. Told me it was an
incubus. You know what that is?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

“Neither did I, till she explained it. An incubus is a demon. Supposedly sneaks up on girls
while they’re sleeping and has sex with them.”

“And she wanted this in her room?”

Lucille shrugged. “What can I tell you? Weird. I don’t know what it all meant. She started
wearing lots of silver, jewelry and stuff. Dark lipstick. Big hoop earrings with an upside-down
cross dangling in the center. And she started dressing in black—nothing but black.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Wish I did. The worst was when—when she told me she didn’t want to be Amber
anymore.”

“She was gonna kill herself?”

“No. She was going to change her name. Said from now on I was supposed to call her Lilith.
Lady Lilith, actually.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t say. I didn’t ask. And I never followed her when she went out partying with those
girls, though now I wish to God I had. I’d go get her myself if I knew where to look. Amber was
such a good girl—so bubbly, happy, concerned about others. So full of life. But something
happened to her. It’s like someone—or something—sucked all the energy out of her. The light in
her eyes faded. She became dull, listless. She didn’t seem to care about anything
anymore—including herself. She’d turned into a whole different kind of person.” She brushed her
hand across her eyes. “May sound stupid but—I loved that girl. She reminded me of myself when I
was a little younger and—you know. A little smaller.”

“Doesn’t sound stupid to me at all.” He reached forward and laid his hand gently on Lucille’s
shoulder. To his surprise, she pressed her hand down on his.

“You’re good people.” She looked up, and Loving saw tears in her eyes. “Do you really think
you can find my Amber?”

“I can’t promise nothin’. But I’ll do my best. And I’m not too shabby at findin’ things. Do
you know the names of any of these clubs they frequented?” Lucille was still holding his
hand.

“I know one. Found a matchbook in Amber’s room when I helped clean it out. Place called
Stigmata. I think I heard her party girls mention it once or twice. I don’t know where it
is.”

“I’ll find it.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help, you just let me know, understand? And if you do find
her—” Loving felt her hand press even tighter. “Would you bring her back here? Or have her call?
Even if she’s moved on to some other life, which I wouldn’t blame her if she did. She had so much
talent. Not like me. She could do better.”

“I think you’re sellin’ yourself short.”

“And I think you’re way too sweet. So would you do that for me? Make sure I know she’s
okay?”

“It’s a promise.”

“Thank you.”

She wasn’t releasing his hand, and just standing there was getting somewhat awkward, so Loving
sat beside her on the bed. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

“Depends on what the question is.”