Capitol Murder (41 page)

“Senator, why did you sponsor Miss Dell?”

Glancy took a deep breath. “She’s a bright, ambitious young woman who was raised in a very
poor undereducated family in rural Oklahoma. As with Ms. Cooper, I was trying to do her a
favor.”

“Do
her
a favor? Or do yourself a favor? What did you promise this bright, ambitious
girl if she would submit to your disgusting advances?”

“I never did anything of the sort. This is all untrue!”

“I don’t think so, Senator. She was a minor and you knew it. You knew it when you sponsored
her and you knew it when you took her to bed.”

“I object!” Christina bellowed.

“Sustained!” Herndon said, equally loudly. “Consider yourself fined, Mr. Padolino. One more
outburst like that and you’ll be spending the night in jail.”

Padolino plowed ahead just the same. “You didn’t suppress her name because you were trying to
protect Miss Dell. You were trying to protect yourself. From a rape charge!”

“That’s not true!” Glancy insisted. “It was entirely consensual.”

“It was statutory rape, at the very least,” Padolino continued. “And I wonder if it wasn’t
more than that.”

“Again I must object!” Christina said. “This is pure character assassination. It has nothing
to do with the murder.”

“Oh, I’m getting to that,” Padolino said, in a way that sent chills down Christina’s spine.
“I’m just laying the foundation here. There’s much more yet to come.”

“Then get to it,” Judge Herndon said. “I’ve had about as much of this as I’m going to
take.”

“Senator Glancy,” Padolino said, “do you recall the intimate evening you spent with Miss
Dell?”

Glancy’s whole demeanor, his very presence, had changed. He looked rumpled, confused,
uncomfortable. His face was red. Sweat dripped down the side of his face. “Of course I do.”

“That’s good. Do you remember the part when you bit her on the neck?”

One of the female jurors gasped. They all looked horrified.

“I didn’t do anything I thought would be . . . unpleasurable to her.”

“Indeed. Do you remember when you cut her?”

And that was when Christina knew. Knew for certain. That was when it became hopeless.

“Again,” Glancy said, suddenly looking old, desperate, lecherous, and totally untrustworthy,
“it’s none of your business what goes on between consenting adults.”

“But she’s not quite an adult, is she?”

“I didn’t do anything she didn’t like!”

“Anything she didn’t like? Or anything you didn’t like?”

Glancy’s face was so tight, so flushed, he looked as if he might explode. “She . . . was
enjoying it!”

“No, sir.
You
were enjoying it. It was your fetish. Always being in control. She told
me she asked you to stop repeatedly. But you wouldn’t.” The buzz in the courtroom rose, but
Padolino continued. “She said you cut her neck, and she cried out for you to stop, but you
wouldn’t. She said it was as if you lost all reason, as if you became some sort of monster!”

“Objection!” Christina shouted. “Is counsel testifying now or just repeating hearsay from his
ambush witness?”

Padolino ignored her. “Tiffany said you cut her, and you wouldn’t stop, and she believed that
if she hadn’t been strong enough to stop you, you would’ve killed her!”

Christina objected, and Glancy denied, but they were both drowned out by the tumult that swept
across the courtroom. It took much gavel pounding before Judge Herndon restored any semblance of
order.

“Just answer this for the jury,” Padolino said, “and answer truthfully, sir, because I have
photographs that were taken by Miss Dell the very night it happened. Do you deny that you cut
your young lover on the neck? With a knife?”

The wait seemed interminable. But at last they got their answer.

“No,” Glancy said quietly. “I don’t deny it.”

And then it was over. Not the cross—that went on for another half hour, and then Christina
attempted to redirect, for all the good it did. And they would interview Tiffany Dell and try to
find some holes in her story. But that had nothing to do with the trial. The trial, as Christina
knew all too well, was over. She had no doubts now about whether the jury would convict. She only
wondered if they would do her the courtesy of deliberating.

The Sire was dancing around the dead body of his former underling, clapping his hands and
shouting in tones that bordered between elation and hysteria. “You thought you could escape the
Inner Circle? You thought you could escape my wrath? You
fool
! Thus to all traitors.
Thus to all who challenge the Brotherhood of Miatas. I am the Sire! I cannot be defeated!”

He’s insane, Loving thought, as he lay helplessly on the floor. Totally over the edge. He knew
it was only a matter of time before the Sire killed him. And in his current condition, he was
unable to stop it. Even if he managed to pull himself up, he could never move fast enough to
elude that drooling psychopath.

“You thought you could defeat me, didn’t you?” He jerked the scalpel out of Deep Throat’s neck
and pressed it against Loving’s throat. “You thought you could take what was mine. Mine! You
thought you could steal from me! No one takes what is mine, my sad pathetic friend. I am an
immortal! I am a god among men.”

“Fine,” Loving managed to spit out. “Kill me. But let Beatrice go. There’s no reason why you
have to kill her.”

The Sire shook his head, giving Loving a pitying expression. “How little you understand. After
all this time.”

Loving felt his gorge rising in his stomach. He had failed—totally and utterly failed. He
couldn’t save Beatrice. He couldn’t even save himself.

“How does it feel to be helpless, my strapping friend? How does it feel to know that your time
on this planet is about to come to an end? That I’m going to add your petty life to my collection
of souls. That I will drink your blood for my breakfast?”

Loving desperately wanted to tell him what he thought, but he knew that wouldn’t be wise.

“Still silent? Very well. Prepare yourself. Say a prayer, if you think it will do you any
good.” He held up the scalpel; it glistened in the overhead light. “I’m going to cut your throat
now. And drink from you like a fountain. Like a fountain!” He crouched down beside Loving. “I’m
going to cut you like—”

“I don’t think so. Say cheese, Dracula.”

“What?”
The Sire whirled around in the direction of the voice, but before he could
complete the turn the room was split by the sound of a projectile whistling through the air. It
thudded into the center of the Sire’s chest. He screamed, then collapsed.

His hands were clutching the bolt of a crossbow.

“Nice shot, if I do say so myself. Kind of disappointed he didn’t turn into dust, though.”

Loving leaned forward, struggling to see. “Shalimar!”

She walked beside him, beaming. “Yup. Your friendly neighborhood vampire hunter.”

Loving did his best to appear cross. “I told you to stay outside.”

“Yeah. Good thing I didn’t listen, huh?” She crouched beside him. “How are you?”

Loving grunted and stretched out his arm. “Help me up.” He felt extremely woozy, but he was
determined to stay at his feet. “The Sire. Is he dead?”

“Nah. Hurting real bad, I hope, but not dead. See? Eyes still open.”

Loving bent over the Sire, who was writhing on the floor, trying unsuccessfully to remove the
bolt. Loving desperately wanted to kill the fiend on the spot, but he knew that wouldn’t be
smart, however pleasurable.

He grabbed the end of the crossbow and gave it a twist. The Sire screeched like a banshee.
“Not so fun when the sharp instrument is inside
you
, huh? You’re bleedin’ big-time. The
human body only contains eight pints of blood, as I ’spect you know, bein’ an expert on the
subject. So if you don’t tell me what I want to know, immediately, not only am I not gonna call
an ambulance, but I’m going to leave you here to die slowly. Then I’m going to let all your
henchvamps come in and lap up your blood. And then—” He leaned closer so the Sire could feel his
breath. “Then I’m going to take your body to the Playground and put it in the room reserved for
necrophiliacs. For the first time in your miserable existence, you’ll be bringin’ some joy into
someone else’s life.” He paused, giving the man a look that made it clear he was not bluffing.
“One chance. Only. Where’s Beatrice?”

The Sire raised a shaky hand and pointed up the stairs. Then he jerked his hand to the
left.

“You’d better be tellin’ the truth, or I’ll prove to everyone in the Inner Circle that you’re
not immortal. Come on, Shalimar.”

Shalimar raced upstairs and across the hall, then through the far left door. Loving hobbled
behind as best he could. She threw open the door.

“Oh my God.”

It was like a wing of a hospital ward, one bed after the next, all of them alike, all of them
occupied. By young girls.

“Beatrice!”

Shalimar spotted her long before Loving did. She raced to her sister’s side. Loving followed
as quickly as possible.

She looked much as she had when he’d seen her earlier, in the Inner Circle ceremony—pale,
weak, motionless. But now her eyes were open, and they reacted to the sound of her sister’s
voice.

“Beatrice! Oh my God. Beatrice!”

Shalimar leaned across the bed and hugged her sister tightly, tears streaming from her eyes.
Loving sat on the edge of the bed, tired, hurting, but so so glad. They’d found her. She wasn’t
dead. She was—

Loving spotted the IV needle in her arm. Beside the bed was a bottle filled with a red
fluid.

Her blood.

And as he scanned the room, he saw that on every bed, every girl had an IV needle in her arm,
and a half-filled bottle beside her.

Oh my God, Loving thought. This was too much. Too much.

“Call the ambulance,” he whispered, the best he could manage. “Call the police. Ask for
Lieutenant Albertson.”

And then he closed his eyes and tried to make the rest of the world go away.

Oh my God. Oh my dear God.

Ben and Padolino were huddled in the judge’s chambers, both hunched over the man’s desk while
Christina and Padolino’s assistants stood barely a foot behind them, each feeding their attorneys
case law and citations as the legal wrangling roiled. The court reporter sat just behind them,
her fingers rapidly taking down everything that was said.

“This is absolutely unacceptable,” Padolino declared. “The trial is over. He was done.”

“I never rested,” Ben said. “The judge specifically said we could have more time.”

“To interrogate Tiffany Dell, yes. Not to drum up some surprise witness.”

“Right,” Ben shot back. “Only the prosecution is allowed to do that.”

“I never put Tiffany Dell on the stand!”

“You used her as a witness just the same.”

“Gentlemen, stop!” Herndon put his hands down firmly on his desk. “I’ve had enough of this
bickering. If you have a legal argument to make, then make it. If you have some precedent to
present to the court, heaven forbid, please do so. Otherwise, be quiet!”

They both started to speak at once. Herndon raised a finger. “I want you to both sit down.
Now. We’re going to take turns. You remember about taking turns? Perhaps your mothers introduced
the concept one day when you were playing Candy Land.”

Both attorneys eyed each other. Lips parted.

“Padolino,” Herndon declared, “you’re first.”

“Your honor, in the name of fundamental fairness, do not allow the defense to pull out some
unknown witness at the eleventh hour in a desperate attempt to salvage a case they are going to
lose—for good reason. My associates can provide you with a dozen cases in which judges refused to
hear testimony from witnesses who were not on the pretrial witness list.”

“Nonetheless, this is surely a matter that has to be considered on a case-by-case basis.”

“But we didn’t even know this woman existed before Mr. Kincaid called us last night. We’ve had
no opportunity to talk to her.”

“I have it on the authority of Lieutenant Albertson of the DCPD that Mr. Kincaid himself did
not know about this woman or talk to her prior to her discovery by his investigator last night.
And the only reason you haven’t been able to talk to her is that she’s been in the Bethesda
intensive care unit along with many other young women discovered on the same premises.”

“Just the same—”

Herndon adjusted the direction of his finger. “Okay, you’ve had your say. Now it’s Mr.
Kincaid’s turn.”

“Your honor, the only reason I’m asking the court to permit this testimony is that it is vital
to uncovering the truth.”

“It always is,” he said wearily.

“Moreover, it is critical to understanding what happened to Veronica Cooper.”

“Oh honestly,” Padolino said, “as if we didn’t already know what—”

“Counselor,” Herndon admonished, “it is not your turn. Back to the Peppermint Stick
Forest.”

Padolino clammed up.

Ben continued. “Of course we’ll give the prosecutors access to her, the same as we’ve had, as
much as her doctors will permit.”

“What about this other person? The one the police chief called ‘the Sire’?”

“Real name Barry Dodds, real estate agent by day. Vamp by night.” Ben shook his head. “He’s
not talking—for obvious reasons. Judge, this girl is all we’ve got.”

“And the minor problem of her not being on the witness list?”

“I could show you mounds of case law in which new witnesses were allowed to be added when they
were discovered after the trial began—but I don’t have to, because you already know all about
them. Mr. Padolino was allowed to use a previously unlisted witness, and whether he actually
called her or not, her testimony was devastating to my client on cross-examination. All I’m
asking for is the same leniency you gave the prosecution.”

“But my witness was a young woman of unquestioned integrity,” Padolino insisted. “His witness
is—is—well, for God’s sake. She’s a vampire!”