Capitol Murder (22 page)

“Just like that?”

Jones smiled, obviously feeling very superior. “I have tried to show you how to use the
computer.”

“I don’t like the computer.”

“Which is why I solved the mystery, and you didn’t.” Jones quickly scrolled down a webpage,
scanning the text as he went. “Seems to be some sort of private club.”

“I checked the phone book. There was nothing.”

“I guess it’s a very private club. Besides—Circle Thirteen isn’t the name of the place. It’s
the name of a group that meets there.” He continued scrolling. “Spooky-looking place.
Spooky-looking people. Lots of black.”

“What a surprise,” Loving said dryly.

“They’re trying to keep strangers from getting past the home page. This site isn’t intended to
be public—just a way for members to post messages privately, without leaving traces on someone
else’s server. You need a password to gain entry.”

“Can you guess it?”

“I’ll do an end run.”

“What does that mean?”

“Means I’m going to sneak past their firewall and bust inside. I’ve got a little algorithm
that might do the trick.”

Loving looked at Daily. “Do you understand what he’s talkin’ about? Because I don’t.”

Daily looked back at him sadly. “Amber is the computer whiz in the family. As far as I’m
concerned, it’s just a big paperweight.”

“I’m in,” Jones crowed.

“Already?” Loving marveled. Jones was fast. Maybe he should consider not making fun of him at
every opportunity. On second thought,
naah
.

“Oh my God,” Jones whispered, his jaw dropping. “Oh my God.”

“What?” Loving said, hovering behind him. “What’s Circle Thirteen?”

Jones took a deep breath. “Well, it isn’t a sewing circle. It’s more like . . . a coven.”

“A coven!” Daily stared at him in disbelief. “What are you saying? That they’re witches?”

“Of course not. That would be ridiculous.” Jones swiveled around and offered Daily his seat in
front of the monitor. “They’re vampires.”

At first, there were no inhabitants in the small dark ceremonial chamber. It seemed like a
chapel, despite being entirely devoid of Christian iconography. There was a stained-glass window
just above and beyond the altar, but no light came through it, and the images, to the extent they
could be discerned, were dark and grisly: portraits of bloodletting, blood sharing, and unholy
acts of violence to women and children. The only cross, just behind the altar, was turned upside
down, so that it pointed toward the earth rather than the sky.

Slowly, thirteen figures entered the room, single file. They were each wearing black hooded
robes that covered them almost completely. Only the slightest traces of facial features were
visible. They arranged themselves in the center of the room, lining the perimeter of a circle
with a five-pointed star in the center.

A few moments later, another figure entered the room. The contrast was dramatic. This figure
was smaller than the previous four, female, and moved haltingly, as if unsure what to do or where
to go. Her robe was white. Tendrils of blond hair slipped from the front of the hood.

“Take your place in the pentagram,” one of the hooded men said. His voice was deep and
commanding, and the female obeyed without hesitation. She moved to the center of the circle and
was surrounded by the hooded figures.

“Are you ready for the ritual to begin?”

Her hood trembled up and down, nodding.

“Speak!”

“Yes,” she whispered. “I’m ready.”

The man who had spoken, the tallest of them, stepped forward. He stood before her, gazing
downward. He placed his hand upon her cheek, then slowly pushed the hood away, releasing an ample
bounty of long golden hair and a face so young she could barely have been out of her teens. She
stared, wide-eyed, as if she were powerless to look away from his piercing eyes. His thin
blood-red lips turned upward, revealing a brief flash of incandescent white teeth. The other men
began to chant in a low monotone, incanting some strange, numinous ritual in a language other
than English.

“Kneel before me, woman.”

She obeyed, lowering herself to the floor.

“Do you worship me with all your heart and soul and mind?”

“I do, my master.” She leaned forward, abasing herself before the man in the black robe.

“Are you prepared to take your place in our brotherhood? To become one with the Inner Circle?”
His booming voice reverberated through the tiny chapel.

“I am.”

“Is it your devout desire to become one with the Sire? To enter into Holy Communion with
him?”

“Yes,” she said breathlessly. “Oh, yes.”

“Very well, Beatrice. You may now disrobe.”

Without apparent thought or reservation, she shook the robe off her shoulders. She was wearing
nothing beneath. The folds of the robe gathered around her knees, leaving her entirely naked and
exposed.

With such speed that it took everyone in the room by surprise, the man raised his hand and
struck her face with the back of his fist. She tumbled sideways, halting her fall with an
outstretched arm. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her upright, then hit her again, even
harder than before. A trickle of blood spilled from her mouth. A blue-black bruise began to
swell. And then he hit her again.

“You are not ready,” the man intoned, still clutching her hair. He hit her again, and her eyes
fluttered closed. He threw her backward and she fell in a heap on the tile floor, her legs askew,
her bloody face turned to one side.

“Leave her,” the man said bitterly. “When she wakes, I will talk with her further. She can
still be of service to us.”

He left the room, and a moment later the others followed, leaving behind the young woman, her
beautiful blond hair now sullied by the caked and sticky blood streaming from her broken
nose.

“Bit rough on her, weren’t you?” He removed his robe and carefully placed it on a coat
hanger.

“For a reason,” the man with the piercing eyes replied.

“But we need her to talk.”

“Yes. But we also need to know that what she tells us is true.”

“Naturally. But—”

“Complete subjugation of the will requires time. We must strip away her attachments to her
former existence. Her world must become me. Her purpose for living must be to serve me, and me
alone.”

“How can you know she’ll—”

“I know.” The man had exchanged his dark hooded robe for a jet-black cloak. In the low
lighting, he was almost invisible.

“That sounds good, in theory. But this is getting out of control. If she got away and talked
to—”

“She will not. Never fear, my friend. Everything is completely in control.”

“You’re sure about that.”

“I am.” He turned, easing out of his chair as if his body had no solidity at all, as if it
were pure liquid. “The sanctity of the Inner Circle will be preserved.”

“You can’t know that. What if she refuses to talk?”

He stepped closer to his companion, near enough that the much shorter man imagined he could
feel heat emanating from those relentless black eyes. “I am the Sire, my friend. No one refuses
to talk to me. No one refuses me anything.”

Ben ducked into a side room, hoping to escape the throng of reporters in the corridor begging
for a quote, wanting to know if the testimony of the distinguished congressman from Arkansas was
“the final nail in Glancy’s coffin.” Ben didn’t like to talk to the press before or during a
trial, and he knew he couldn’t come up with any answer that could give the situation a positive
“spin.”

He closed the door behind him, dropped into the nearest chair, took a deep breath—and realized
he was not alone.

“Like vultures, aren’t they?”

Ben was startled to see his opponent, Paul Padolino, sitting on the other side of the
conference table, leaning back in one chair, his feet propped up on another.

“They are when you’re a defense attorney. What are you doing in here?”

“Same as you. Hiding.”

“Don’t you have an office in this building?”

“Yes. Alas, the minions of the Franken-fifth estate know where it is. And by the way, the
press doesn’t just hassle defense attorneys. We get our fair share of grief on the prosecution
side, too.”

“It isn’t the same. Defense lawyers are treated like pariahs. People assume anyone accused of
a crime is guilty—especially if they’re prominent. Which makes us the slime trying to get the
guilty people off.”

“Defensive, much?” Padolino asked, smiling slightly.

“Yes. And if you knew how many times I’ve seen the district attorney get it wrong, or take the
easy way out, you would be, too.”

Padolino shrugged. “Perhaps. But of course, you come from Oklahoma, where district attorneys
hold press conferences to brag about how many people they’ve put on death row and forensic
scientists falsify evidence to help them do it.”

Ben cringed and quickly changed the subject. “I’ve noticed that you aren’t going for the press
conference routine much. Even though God has given you an incredibly high-profile case and public
sympathy—and my informants tell me you have political aspirations.”

Padolino smiled. “Whether I do or I don’t, I believe criminal cases should be tried in the
courtroom, not on the evening news. Besides, I could never compete with your boy’s PR machine.
Best to just stay out of its way.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pack of
Camels. “Care for a smoke?”

Ben blinked. “I thought all federal courthouses prohibited—”

“I won’t tell if you won’t tell.”

“No thanks. I don’t smoke.”

“A little snort, then?” From the other side of his coat, Padolino produced a silver flask.

“Uh, no. I don’t really drink much, either. Certainly not when—”

Padolino tossed his head toward the kitchenette in the corner. “Cup of jamoke?”

“Ohhh . . .”

“You’re telling me you don’t even drink coffee?”

“Well, the rumor is, it isn’t actually good for you.”

“Hell, Bressler was right. You are a saint.” His smile made it come off funny, not
mean-spirited. “But I don’t think you’re nearly as naïve or as gormless as you seem
sometimes.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ben insisted, then added, “but just for the record,
I don’t think you’re the politically ambitious anything-for-a-conviction prosecutor you sometimes
seem, either.”

“Hey, have I treated you badly?”

Ben shrugged. In truth, he had not. He’d produced everything as required, at least so far as
Ben knew, and had done so in a timely fashion. He’d given Ben access to all his witnesses. He
hadn’t engaged in
ad hominem
character attacks—well, not on Ben’s character, anyway.
Despite being given a case with numerous exploitable possibilities and public opinion vastly in
his favor, Padolino had played it pretty straight. “No. You’ve been a model prosecutor, far as
I’m concerned.”

“I’ve had no reason not to be. Don’t misunderstand—I’m not saying I don’t want to nail your
client. But I haven’t got any grudge against you, so there haven’t been any sneaky courtroom
tricks, leaks to the press, any of that rot. And I plan to keep it that way.” He pointed a
finger. “I do intend to win this case. But I’m going to do it the right way.”

“Fair enough.”

“We’re opponents. We don’t have to be enemies.”

Could I possibly clone this guy, Ben wondered, or take him home with me?

“You’re wrong about the reporters, though. They really don’t have it in for defense attorneys.
Despite all the babble about the ‘liberal media,’ I’m not even sure reporters have opinions of
their own anymore. All today’s journalists care about is ratings. Circulation numbers. Popularity
quotients. Nielsens. It’s ironic, really. They criticize politicians for making decisions based
upon poll results. But they do exactly the same thing.”

“That’s a rather heterodox viewpoint. Especially coming from a Republican.”

“Answer me this: who did the press come down harder on? Reagan, during the Iran-Contra
scandal, or Clinton, during the Lewinsky affair?”

“Clinton. By a mile.”

“Right. Now let’s weigh their relative importance. The Clinton scandal was about a man
cheating on his wife. The Reagan scandal was, well, treason. Conducting secret foreign policy in
direct contravention of Congress. And remember, you’re talking to a very right-wing guy here. But
the fact remains—the press didn’t batter Reagan one one-hundredth as much as they did Clinton.
Why? Because Reagan’s popularity ratings were huge. Everyone loved the man. He was sweet and
slightly doddering, like everyone’s favorite grandfather. And everyone was overwhelmed with
intaxication.”

“What?”

“The euphoria induced by a tax cut, which overcomes people’s recollection that it was their
money in the first place. Anyway, attacking that sweet, senile old man with the dyed pompadour
would’ve turned people off big-time. So the media softballed him.”

“To be fair,” Ben said, “Clinton did lie about the affair.”

“Yeah, and Reagan lied about Nicaragua. Dubya lied about having a drunk driving record and
he’s been obscenely evasive about his past drug use. Why wasn’t the liberally biased press all
over that? Because dumb as the man is, he comes off on television as very likable, a regular guy.
Clinton was smart and capable but not necessarily someone you’d want over for dinner; they could
beat up on him all night long.” He grinned. “That’s your main problem in this case, you know,
Ben. Everyone knows Glancy is smart. Very, very smart. You’d be much better off if you were
representing an amiable dunce.”

Ben glanced at his watch. “Fascinating as this is, it looks like it’s time for us to get back
to the salt mines.”

“Right.” Padolino swiveled his feet around and stretched. “One more question, though. That
partner of yours. Miss McCall.”

“What about her?”

“Are all the lady lawyers in Oklahoma that hot? ’Cause that sure isn’t how we grow them up
here.”