Capitol Murder (2 page)

Christina McCall sailed through the front doors of her law office with an air of insouciance,
bouncing with each step, whistling as she walked. Jones, the office manager and part-time oracle,
did his best to interpret the signs. He could tell she was in a merry mood, not only from the
whistling, but also because she was dressed less like an attorney and more like, well, Christina.
She was wearing a short, pleated skirt, knee-high boots, and a clinging sweater ornamented with
irregular patches of fake fur.

“I’m guessing you didn’t get that outfit at Saks,” Jones commented.

“Dear Jones,” she said smiling, “Don’t you know? This is all the rage amongst the
jeunesse
dorée
.”

Jones didn’t know what that meant and wasn’t interested enough to ask. “Is there a reason why
we’re whistling this morning?”

Christina beamed. “Because it gives me a happy.”

“Uh-huh. May I assume from this unsuppressed display of jocularity that you must’ve beaten Ben
at Scrabble last night?”

She stopped at his desk in the lobby and snatched the pink message slips from her spindle.
“Jones, Jones—you’re so passé. We’re long past the Scrabble stage.”

“’Zat a fact,” he said dubiously. “Might I have the temerity to suggest the possibility that
he actually . . . kissed you good night?”

“Jones, Jones, Jones!” She leaned across his desk, still grinning. “You are such a
busybody.”

“I’m just trying to stay up-to-date on this putative romance.”

“And I’d love to continue this delightful raillery, but—”

“Look, I’m trying to run an office,” Jones said, raising his chin. “It’s my job to know if
anything potentially damaging to the firm is developing. So I’m naturally concerned when the
firm’s two attorneys make the incredibly boneheaded decision to start dating each other. But if
you don’t want to tell me anything, fine. I don’t care.”

A few seconds of silence passed. Christina stared at him. Jones drummed his fingers.

“All right, so I do care. Don’t make me grovel. Tell me already.”

Christina fluttered her eyelashes. “Dear sweet Jones. Don’t work yourself into a swivet. I’ll
tell all. Ben and I are so past the good night kiss stage.” She gave him a pronounced wink. “Way
way past. What a libido that man has.”

“Really. I thought Ben was more glibido.”

“Huh?”

“All talk and no action.”

“Well, you are . . . totally wrong.”

“Glad to hear it. I guess.” As Christina bounced toward her office, he added, “But I notice
there’s no ring on your finger.”

Her neck stiffened first; the rest of her body soon followed. She slowly pivoted on one heel.
“That . . . doesn’t mean . . . anything. We haven’t been dating all that long.”

“Oh? Seems to me it’s been . . .”

“Just a little over a year.” She paused. “With, like, ten years of foreplay. Look, he’s a
typical nineties male. Afraid of commitment.”

“Wake up and smell the calendar, Chris. The nineties were over a long time ago. Your boy is
stalling.”

“He isn’t stalling. He’s just . . . Ben.” Her fingers fluttered through the air. “You know how
hard he was hit by that Ellen mess, how she betrayed him. That’s how he sees it, anyway. And that
business with Belinda Hamilton didn’t help any.”

“And Keri Kilcannon.”

“Ugh.” Christina’s face twisted into a grimace. “Did you have to bring her up?” She sighed. “I
keep telling myself this romance isn’t hopeless, that eventually we’ll take the next step. But
how long can I wait for this man to come to his senses?”

“Hearing that old biological clock ticking?”

“Yeah. The one that tells me I probably won’t live past one hundred and ten. And that may not
be long enough.”

“I feel for you. Truly.”

“What would you know about it? You and Paula fell in love right off the bat.”

“We didn’t get married right off the bat.” Jones’s eyes twinkled. “But I knew it was going to
happen. Knew the first moment I laid eyes on her.”

“And you’ve been happily married ever since. How did you know? How could you be sure? Give me
a test.”

“That’s easy enough. Has he ever told you he loves you?”

She frowned, then stomped across the lobby to her office.

Jones leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “That’s what I thought.”

Ben crept into the lobby, carefully opening and releasing the door so the automatic chime
would not sound. When was he going to have that private-access elevator to his office installed?
Answer: probably sometime after he actually made some money, a goal that perpetually eluded him.
And it wasn’t because of his profligate ways, either. In all his years as a lawyer, he’d tried
dozens of cases, mostly with some degree of success, settled a multimillion-dollar tort case,
written two books, inherited a boardinghouse, and rarely spent a dime on himself. But he still
only barely managed to keep the firm afloat. And for the most part, it was his own fault. And he
knew it.

Which was why he was tiptoeing past his office manager’s desk, hoping Jones kept his attention
fixed on his computer screen. He felt certain that Candy Warren would take the DA’s offer. He
also felt certain that as soon as her father found out about it, he would refuse to pay Ben a
dime, which would make her the third no-pay in a month. The only check he remembered seeing
recently had come from the government for a court-appointed representation, and that hadn’t
amounted to enough to take his staff to the Golden Arches for a burger and fries. No, he
definitely didn’t need to have a confrontation with Jones this early in the morning.

As he turned stealthily down the corridor to the private offices, he saw that Christina was
already in. His spirits got an instantaneous lift, as they always did when he saw her. He almost
said hello—then thought better of it and returned to stealth mode. They’d had a wonderful time
together the night before, absolutely blissful: takeout from Right Wing, a new episode of
Says You
! on the radio, and some extremely gratifying snuggling. But when the evening
came to an end, and they stood at the door together, and he’d given her one last goodbye kiss
about as many times as was possible without it becoming ridiculous, she paused, held him at arm’s
length, and waited.

He knew what she was waiting for. And the pathetic thing was, he wanted to comply. But he
couldn’t make himself do it. No matter how hard he tried. So he bumbled something inane about
what a “swell girl” she was, and she left.

Yes, he was definitely tiptoeing past her door, too.

He slid into his desk chair and thumbed through the mail Jones had left. Bills, bills, and
more bills. A possible case in Creek County against a crop-dusting school. A small-time Internet
florist that wanted to sue its fulfillment service. Nothing remotely interesting. Nothing likely
to make him rich overnight. And nothing that was ever going to help him work up the nerve to do
right by—

“Christina!” He sat upright, startled by her sudden appearance. “What—”

She marched past his desk, grabbed him by the shoulders, raised him to his feet, and planted a
big wet one right on his lips.

“Ub—dub—what—”

“Yes, yes, I know your rules. No smoochies in the workplace. But today I think you’ve earned
an exception. I just got word from the courthouse. Father Beale is going to be released!”

“You’re kidding!”

“You know I wouldn’t joke about something like that. He’s been wrongfully incarcerated for far
too long. It’s an embarrassment to the entire state.”

“So our appeal finally worked.”

“Appeal, schmiel. It was your book that did it.” Not long after he had tried Father Beale’s
case—and lost—Ben began writing his second nonfiction book. It had finally been published about a
month before, and the sales had been considerably better than those for his first book—which
meant they were at least in two-digit numbers.
Bad Faith
had also generated a fair
amount of media attention, especially in legal circles.

“The governor, archconservative that he is, couldn’t help but get involved after you turned up
the heat, Ben. People were calling for Father Beale’s release all over the state—heck, all over
the nation. Greta van Susteren devoted an entire hour to the case, for Pete’s sake. Make no
mistake, Ben—this had nothing to do with any judge, jury, or legal argument. You made this
happen.”

“Well . . . I’m glad he’s getting out, anyway.” Which was putting it mildly. Father Beale had
been Ben’s childhood priest, a man he loved dearly for all his faults. Losing his case had been a
devastating blow. “I want to be there when he’s released.”

“I knew you would. I’ve made all the arrangements.”

“Great. That’s just . . . great.” Ben had been trying to avoid her eyes, but something about
Christina made that impossible. Whether he wanted to or not, his gaze returned to her long
strawberry-blond hair, her freckled nose. She was half a foot shorter than he was, and yet
everything she did, everything she said exuded confidence and fortitude. “Look . . .” He
hesitated. “About last night . . .”

Her eyes turned up. “Yes?”

“I just—I just wanted you to know that—that—”

“Yes?”

Ben felt beads of sweat trickling down the sides of his face. “That you were totally robbed by
that
Says You
! fake definition round. I mean, who on earth would know that
babbing
was some kind of eel fishing? Arnie has a way of bluffing that takes everyone
in. And—and you shouldn’t feel bad about missing that one.”

Her head moved slowly up and down. “Thanks, Ben. Appreciate that.”

A large crew-cut head bobbed into the office. “Hey, you guys got the TV on?”

It was Loving, their investigator. A huge man, built like a storage freezer, but at heart as
soft as a new pair of Hush Puppies.

“No,” Ben answered. “Why? Oprah going to help you find fulfillment by buying some book?”

“Nah. Somethin’ really excitin’. On C-SPAN.”

Something exciting on C-SPAN? Ben thought. That’ll be the day. “What about?”

“Come see for yourself. It’s that Senator Glancy guy.”

“Glancy?” Christina turned her head. “Don’t you know him, Ben?”

He nodded. “Went to law school with him.”

“Friends?”

He shrugged. “His family knew my family. Titans of Nichols Hills, that sort of thing. But no,
he and I were never particularly close. My mother is constantly comparing us, throwing his
success in my face.”

“Why? Because he was a successful and fabulously wealthy oil magnate and then got elected to
the Senate, and you’re a—a—”

Ben waited. “Ye-es?”

“—a . . . increasingly prominent attorney. Let’s go see what Loving is talking about.” She did
a quick about-face and headed out of the office.

Ben almost smiled. Smoothly done, Christina. Very smooth indeed.

Ben and Christina stared at the small television set in the office lobby, their lips parted.
Even in black and white, it was difficult to believe. Or stomach.

“And you say they’ve been running this all morning?”

“Oh yeah,” Loving replied. “You know how these news guys are. They get their hands on
somethin’ this good, they’re gonna find some reason to play it over and over again. Before, the
talkin’ heads were usin’ it for a discussion of character issues. Now it’s some kinda chitchat
about employer ethics. It’s all just a big dog-and-pony show so they can run the tape.”

Loving may have a homespun way of expressing himself, but Ben knew he wasn’t wrong. In a
previous age, the press, of their own volition, declined to ever print a photo of FDR in a
wheelchair or using leg braces. Today they would show . . . this. Repeatedly.

“How did they get it?” Ben wondered aloud.

“No one seems to be sure. They said the tape showed up on a C-SPAN reporter’s desk.”

“I am so totally disgusted,” Christina said. “I mean, an
affaire de coeur
is one
thing, but this—”

“Jiminy Christmas,” Ben groaned. “They’re starting it again.”

Christina’s lips pursed. “Let’s just hope they resist the temptation to use slow motion.”

The video was black and white and grainy, but it was still clearly Senator Todd K. Glancy,
D-OK, in the foreground, wearing a blue business suit. Kneeling before him on a sofa was a
brunette woman who couldn’t possibly be older than her early twenties. She was wearing nothing
but lacy undergarments, a black push-up brassiere, and panties connected by a garter strap to
fishnet hose, like something you might see in a Victoria’s Secret store window. No, Ben thought,
it was too tacky for Victoria’s Secret. Maybe Frederick’s of Hollywood. No, still too tacky.
Maybe Ashlyn’s Adult Toy and Costume Shop.

The lead anchor appeared on the screen, a somber expression on his face, continuing his
prosaic commentary. “Again, we want to caution our viewers—what you are about to see will shock
you. We are airing this only because it is clearly newsworthy, and because it could have profound
ramifications for the future of this country. Nonetheless, if there are any impressionable minors
in the viewing area, or for that matter anyone who might be offended by graphic sexual content,
we strongly urge you to remove them, or to turn off your television immediately.”

Brilliant lead-in, Ben thought. Guaranteed no one on earth would be changing the channel.
Especially impressionable minors.

As the tape began, the audio was staticky, but captioning at the bottom of the screen helped
fill in the gaps. The young woman on her knees bore a lascivious grin. “I’ve been watching you
all day,” she said, breathily. “Trying to contain myself. But it’s been hard. You are so
hot.”

“Am I?” Glancy replied.

“Oh yes. God, yes. You’re a firecracker. Every woman in the office dreams about getting a
piece of you.”

Glancy’s voice softened. “Tell me more.”

“I’ve heard them talking about it, the secretaries, the other interns. How incredibly sexy you
are. The fantasies they have about you. How they cream every time they get a whiff of you. How
they’d give anything—anything—just to get you inside them.”