Capitol Threat (8 page)

11

S
enator Robert Hammond’s office had the largest and most well-appointed conference room of any save that of the Majority Leader himself, so that was where they all met, even though the number of people who had been chosen to attend was small and select. Thaddeus Roush was the center of attention, and the amalgamation of talent was gathered to make sure his nomination was not derailed by partisan politics, anti-gay fervor, or murder.

An image consultant named Gina Carraway held color swatches next to Roush’s face. “No, red,” she said finally. “Definitely a red tie.”

Roush squirmed. “A bit flamboyant, isn’t it?”

“You wore red in the Rose Garden.”

“The President’s staff insisted. They even gave me the tie. I typically favor earth tones, myself.”

Carraway wrinkled her nose. “Won’t play on television. Recedes into the background. You need something bright, something bold, something that emanates confidence.”

“Maybe a pair of Bermuda shorts,” Ben said—then immediately regretted it. No one was laughing.

All in all, the mood was somber. In the wake of the disastrous press conference, the general consensus in the political world was that Roush was a dead nominee walking. Many people in both parties had called for him to resign to prevent any further embarrassment to the President, or for that matter, to himself. No one gave his nomination any chance of success. What had initially been seen as a breakthrough advance for gay rights was now looking like a tremendous setback for them. Almost every lobbying group in town had taken a position, and almost all of them were opposed. Even some of the gay rights organizations had removed their support after the murder—support that was fairly tepid in the first place. After all, Roush might be gay, but he was still a Republican.

“I think we’ve fussed about the man’s tie long enough.” This came from Bertram Sexton, a high-powered D.C. attorney Hammond had recruited to act as Roush’s “advisor” during the confirmation hearings. Sexton had represented various nominees and appointees at congressional hearings almost a dozen times in the past. “We need to craft a good opening statement, then strategize how to control the questioning.”

“I’m not finished,” Carraway protested. “I have to match skin tones. He’ll need to wear a good foundation during the hearings.”

Roush twisted his shoulders. “I am not wearing makeup.”

“If you don’t, you’ll look hideous under the bright lights. You’ve got circles under your eyes and tend toward a five o’clock shadow. Plus, you’re likely to sweat.”

Roush folded his arms across his chest. “I repeat: I am not wearing makeup.”

Carraway pinched the bridge of her nose with her long red fingernails. “Bob, I can’t work with this.”

Senator Hammond smiled, but it was not a happy smile. “Let’s leave it for now. We’ll revisit the issue later.”

“We will not,” Roush said emphatically. “Are you insane? I am the first openly gay Supreme Court nominee. No way in hell I’m going to be seen wearing makeup. It’s just too…obvious.”

“Antonin Scalia wore makeup,” Carraway replied.

“I’m sure Ruth Bader Ginsberg did, too,” Roush grumbled. “But I won’t.”

“His concerns about makeup raise all kinds of public opinion issues we have to address.” This was Kevin Beauregard, a professional pollster. “Our research indicates the opposition to his nomination is almost evenly divided between those who oppose him because he’s gay and those who are concerned about his possible connection to a violent crime. He’s right to avoid anything that might be perceived as stereotypically gay.”

Roush raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Oh, you know as well as I do. Probably better. No pastels. Pink shirts are out. We want you to look sharp, distinguished. But not ‘pretty.’ No fussy hair styles. No Dippity-Do.”

“Am I allowed to shampoo?”

“Yes, but under no circumstances can you exfoliate.” He sighed. “If I had my way, I’d give you a buzz cut.”

“Not going to happen.”

“Then you wouldn’t need shampoo.”

A line creased Roush’s forehead. “I repeat, sir: Not going to happen.”

“And that thing you do with your wrist—don’t do it.”

“What thing?”

“That thing. You just did it. That has to go.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s that thing you do, especially when you get worked up. It’s not exactly a limp wrist, but…uncomfortably close. You have to avoid anything that might seem effeminate.”

Roush’s face was reddening. “Will there be anything else?”

“Yes. Can we do something about all the refusals to reply?”

“I don’t know what—”

“You won’t talk about your personal life. You won’t talk about your sexual preference, other than to identify it. You won’t talk about Ray. You won’t talk about the murder. You won’t express an opinion on issues that might come before the Court.” He shook his head. “The American public does not like to be told no. Makes you come off very negative. People will suspect you’re hiding something.”

“My personal life is none of their damn business.”

“And when do people normally say something is ‘none of your business’? When they’re hiding something. I’m telling you, Thaddeus—every time you refuse to answer, you lose three percentage points.”

“I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks. I will not express opinions on political issues or hypothetical cases. It is grossly inappropriate.”

“Another thing: don’t say ‘grossly.’ It sounds, well, gross. Turns people off.”

“Are you planning to police my vocabulary now?”

“Absolutely. Try to avoid the big multisyllabic words. People don’t like it—makes them feel stupid. And it seems kind of pompous. Maybe even a little gay.”

“My vocabulary is gay?” Under the table, Ben could see Roush’s fists balling up. “Have you people forgotten that I am not running for office? All I need is the votes of nine senators in committee and fifty-one in the full assembly. The opinion of the American public doesn’t matter.”

“I’m afraid it does. This is already a hot-potato nomination. People are up in arms. Calling their senators.”

“I can testify to the truth of that statement,” Ben offered. “My phone has been ringing off the hook since the announcement in the Rose Garden.”

“And it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets any better,” Sexton added. “Thaddeus, you should prepare yourself for the worst.”

“Moreover,” Beauregard said, “I can guarantee that the distinguished members of the Senate will be taking the temperature back home before they decide how to vote. You’ll have to win over Middle America if you want this position.”

“Swell.” Roush swiveled his chair to face Ben. “You’re from Oklahoma. Could you please deliver the Heartland for me?”

“If possible,” Ben said somberly. “But the sad truth is, most of my phone calls are running against your appointment.”

“That’s to be expected,” Hammond said hastily. “People don’t know you or anything about you, other than your sexual orientation. We can change that at the hearing.”

“Look,” Roush said, “I’m not planning to put on any dog and pony show. I’m a D.C. Circuit judge, not a damn circus performer.”

“Another thing that has to go,” Beauregard said, making a
tsk
ing noise. “That attitude. Temper, temper.”

“What, is my temper too gay for you?”

Ben scooted his chair between them. “Gentlemen, please. We’re on the same team here, remember?”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Roush grumbled.

“If you don’t mind,” Ben continued, “I have a few questions of my own.”

“Like what?” Senator Hammond asked.

“Like what the heck am I doing here?”

“Well, I was planning to spring this in private, but—I want you to be Tad’s lead counsel at the hearings, Ben. I want you sitting beside him from start to finish.”

“What?
Me?
Why me?”

Hammond’s eyebrows bounced up and down. “Why not you? You’re a member of Congress and an experienced lawyer.”

“You’ve already got a lawyer.”

Hammond shook his head. “Bertram is brilliant when it comes to strategizing the Senate hearing, but he has no experience in criminal defense.”

“This isn’t a criminal trial.”

“Damn close. You know as well as I do that they will try to drag the murder of that poor woman into it.”

“Probably right. But there are other senators—”

“Actually, there are few senators with genuine criminal defense experience, and none with as much as you.”

“But at best, the criminal defense aspect will be a small part of the confirmation hearings. You need someone with political savvy. Experience with hearings of this sort.”

“Bertram will be sitting right behind you.”

“I should be sitting right behind
him.
”

“No, I don’t think so. You’re an Oklahoman and everyone knows it. You’re young, earnest, popular, and as Mom-and-applepie as they come. That’s what I want America to see. Bertram won’t be far away. But when people turn on their sets to look at Tad, I want them to see the fresh-faced kid from Oklahoma at the same time. I want them to think, ‘Well, if Kincaid likes him, a member of the opposition party for heaven’s sake, maybe he’s okay.’ ”

“I think you’re overrating my influence.”

“Got nothing to do with influence,” Hammond said. “It’s about image. You’ve got exactly the image Tad needs. Am I right, Gina?”

She nodded. “He is right. Why are you paying me so much money, Bob? I think you’ve got the image concept down cold.”

“Thirty years in the Senate will do that for you. But I still like to get a second opinion.” He leaned forward and grabbed Ben by the shoulders. “So whaddaya say, slugger? Your country needs you. Thaddeus Roush needs you. Will you do it?”

“Have you made a decision?”

Ben stood in the doorway, a briefcase and coat under his arm. He had just returned from the big powwow in Hammond’s conference room and Christina nailed him before he even had a chance to sit down. “Could I at least hang up my coat first?”

Christina considered. “I’m not sure there’s time.”

“Make time. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get through the swarm of press vultures outside?”

“Yes, because I walked the same path, except two hours earlier.”

“Show-off.” Ben tossed his coat and case into a chair, then grabbed the loaded message spindle. “This many calls? Since I left for the meeting?”

“And it’s going to get worse.”

“Politicians or constituents?”

“Mostly the latter.”

“And the general tenor—?”

“Either they’re mad at you because you backed a gay nominee or they’re mad at you because you backed a Republican nominee.”

“Swell. Anything else?”

“Got a call from a friend at the governor’s office. He’s looking into the possibility of withdrawing your appointment.”

“Is that possible?”

“Probably not. But the fact that he’s considering it doesn’t exactly fill my heart with a rosy glow.”

“That’s just…lovely.” Ben riffled rapidly through the stack of messages. “Any calls supporting me?”

“Just one. But you know your mother never likes to stay on the phone very long.”

Ben stuffed the messages into his pocket. “Any other news?”

“No, Ben. There is no other news. Every information outlet in the country is obsessing about this story and this story alone. If someone dropped an A-bomb on Boulder, Colorado, they would still only be covering the Gay Supreme Court Justice story. And rerunning that clip of you introducing him to the world, just minutes before he introduces a dead body to the world.”

“Any opinions on whodunit?”

“Oh, Ben, you know perfectly well what everyone thinks. Eastwick was seen standing behind the body. On national television.”

“Has he been arrested?”

“Not yet. They’re still questioning him.”

“How’s he holding up?”

“Pretty darn well, all things considered. Still hasn’t seen fit to hire an attorney.”

“Any idea what he’s been saying?”

“No. But since he hasn’t been charged, he must not have said anything tremendously useful.”

“Any word from the White House on the nomination?”

“President Blake’s official position is that since Roush himself isn’t accused of anything, there’s no reason to delay the confirmation hearings. The inside skivvy is that the President wants to move things along so that Roush’s nomination can die in time for him to nominate someone else. Heaven forbid his term should end before he has a chance to appoint the ideologue of his choice.”

Christina crossed her arms, always a sign that she wasn’t going to brook any shilly-shallying. “Now, as to the tiny matter of your decision.”

“Which one?”

“I know, there are so many from which to choose. I was referring to whether you’re going to represent Roush at the hearings.”

“You know about that?”

“I get around.”

“Hammond just asked me a few minutes ago.”

“As I said, I get around.”

Ben drew in his breath, then slowly released it. “I think I’m going to do it.”

“You think that’s wise?”

“Not particularly.”

“Right. Stupid question. As if there were any doubt. Gina Carraway is already choosing your tie.” Christina stepped closer and, with an extended finger touched his lips. “I just wish you could make your other pending decisions with the same alacrity.”

12

L
ieutenant Albertson of the DCPD pounded on his desk. “What the hell did you think you were doing?”

“Trying to stay alive,” Loving grunted. “You got a problem with that?”

“I got a problem with three innocent spectators getting shot and a hooker getting killed. Miracle it wasn’t worse.”

“The miracle’s that I wasn’t perforated in a hundred places.”

“That’s your story.”

“That’s the truth.”

Albertson took a banana out of a desk drawer and began peeling it. “I really don’t need this right now. I’m in the middle of a very high-profile investigation.”

“Yeah, so am I.”

“Probably the same one. Lieutenant Fink has asked me to help him figure out what happened at the Roush press conference.” The police detective inhaled half the banana in a single bite. “Loving—walk with me.”

“Your wish is my command.” Loving limped beside him.

They left Albertson’s office and emerged on the busy streets of D.C. Loving knew Albertson from the work they had done on the Glancy case, and he liked to think the man trusted him, at least a little, but at some level the professionals were always suspicious of the amateurs. And when two thugs are so desperate to kill you that they open fire in a shopping mall, he was probably right to be suspicious. Loving still felt wobbly from the car crash, not to mention the bullet wound, but he managed to hold himself together long enough to walk. Outside, he breathed deeply of the fresh air—which was actually not all that fresh, given the heavy traffic whizzing down “E” Street. It was hot, too. All in all, Loving wondered why Albertson didn’t prefer the nice air-conditioned environment of his semiprivate office.

Albertson pointed and they strolled north. The aroma arising from a hot-dog cart on the corner was supremely tempting, but Loving supposed this wasn’t the time for chow.

“You’re trying to figure out who the girl is, right? The one who was killed at the Roush press conference,” Albertson said.

“As a starting point.”

“To what? Figuring out who killed her? Had to be Roush or his little boyfriend.”

“Killin’ her at their own home? When about a million people were visiting?”

“I’ll admit, that part is troublesome. Still, I think we could make it stick if we came up with a little proof.”

“Hard to prove who did the killin’ when you don’t know who the victim was. How can you prove motive?”

“Yeah. That’s also a sticking point.” Albertson finished his banana and, to Loving’s surprise, ordered a hot dog. Well, when in Rome. Loving got his loaded with onions and sauerkraut. “So—had any luck?”

“I’ll tell if you’ll tell.”

Albertson inhaled half his dog. “What do you want to know?”

“Why’s it so hard to figure out who the woman is? Doesn’t she have fingerprints?”

“Yeah, but they don’t match any prints on record. Something weird about them. My forensics boys think they may have been tampered with.”

“What about the face? Gotta be someone who recognizes her.”

“No one has come forward, discounting the cranks.” He devoured the rest of the dog in a single bite. Loving was no shrink, but this guy had to have a major oral fixation. “I’m surprised. The whole thing is weird, though.”

“How d’ya mean?”

“What was she doing at that press conference? Why doesn’t anyone know her? Why would anyone kill her there when, as you say, there were about a million people roaming about?”

“Maybe it wasn’t planned.”

“That would be my guess, too. Crime of passion, fit of anger, whatever. Were you there?”

Loving shook his head. Private investigators didn’t get invited to important political functions.

“Well, the million or so people in attendance present another problem. Too many suspects. Even the possibility that it was someone who wasn’t actually invited to the press conference. After all, the victim wasn’t invited. But there she was.”

Loving frowned. He had hoped this conversation would be useful. If anything, it was only making the case more complicated.

“But enough about me,” Albertson said, wiping his mouth. “I gave, now you follow suit. Who the hell was trying to kill you?”

“I wish I knew.”

“But you said they were professionals?”

Loving nodded. “At least one of them was. I think the other guy was some sort of keeper. He wasn’t as good; in fact, if anythin’, I think he was crampin’ the pro’s style. I probably wouldn’t have gotten away if he hadn’t had that clown weighin’ him down. I mean, come on. A machine gun in a shoppin’ mall? That’s like somethin’ out of one of them
Terminator
movies. No pro would ever do that.”

“Agreed. Where did they go after you crashed your buggy?”

“Don’t know. I mean, the pro probably knew how to roll with the car and land on his feet. That wasn’t so much of a shock. But the mall security men said the other guy was gone before they could even get to the scene, and I left him hurtin’ pretty bad. I think they must’ve had backup.”

“Cleaners?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Okay. Give me more.”

“I don’t have more to give.”

“Try. I got people breathing down my throat, expecting me to explain three wounded people and over a million dollars in property damage. What were they after?”

“Well, judgin’ from appearances, me.”

“Why?”

“Don’t know.”

“You were meeting someone?”

“Right. I’ve been trollin’ all the low-life hangouts in the vicinity, crook bars and pool halls and stuff. Finally found a guy who said he knew a guy who knew a girl…that sort of thing.” Loving made a strategic decision to delete the one identifying feature that helped him close in on the person he wanted—the red Ford SUV Ben had seen parked at the rear of Thaddeus Roush’s garden. “She was a workin’ girl who supposedly knew a woman who knew the woman who was murdered. Got the impression the victim has some kind of criminal past, so I’m surprised you didn’t get a match on her prints. Anyway, before this lady of the evening could tell me anythin’, those coldhearted assassins riddled her with bullets. Just because she was in the way.” Loving swallowed. “Looked like she wasn’t more than eighteen. Maybe younger.”

Albertson was silent for a moment. “Well, I have to assume you were getting too close to something someone didn’t want you to know.”

“Like the person who’s really behind the murder?”

“Maybe. Or someone who sent the victim to the press conference to be killed. Or someone who doesn’t want you to know who she is for some other reason. Point is—it’s big. Whoever was behind this has some serious money and serious crime connections. Sufficient to bring in a very serious hit man. And a keeper.”

“Yeah. That’s a problem.”

Albertson raised a eyebrow. “Getting scared?”

“Nah,” Loving bluffed. “Gettin’ curious. And a little depressed. If there’s major crime figures in this—maybe even the mob—it’s gonna be a tough nut to crack. Those boys are very good at keepin’ their secrets.” He stopped walking. “So what are we doin’ here, Lieutenant?”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Why are we out here soakin’ up the sunshine instead of inhalin’ the asbestos fumes in your office?”

Albertson smiled slightly. “Don’t you like to get out on occasion? Feel the rays of the sun warming your face?”

“Cut the crap. There was somethin’ you wanted to tell me in private. So spill already.”

Albertson rummaged through his pockets, presumably looking for something to put in his mouth. “I propose a deal.”

“And that would be?”

“We share information. We’re both working the same case, more or less. You learn something, you tell me about it. I learn something, I do likewise. Sound like a good deal?”

“Well,” Loving said cheerfully, “it sounds like a good deal for you. Since I appear to be on the trail of somethin’ big. And you got nada.”

“Look, Loving, I’ve cut you breaks in the past—”

“Never said otherwise.”

“And I got you that provisional P.I. license so you could work while your boss is playing senator.”

“Most kind of ya.”

Albertson’s eyes lowered. “But I could revoke it just as easily as I got it.”

“I qualified for that license. I’m over twenty-one, got no felony convictions. I passed the psych evaluation and I completed my twenty-one hours of trainin’ to get certified by the Oklahoma Council on Law Enforcement Education.”

“All of which might get you somewhere back home. But Dorothy—you’re not in Kansas anymore.”

“Oklahoma.”

“Same difference.”

Loving turned to face him squarely. His shoulders were about twice as broad as Albertson’s, so he made a particularly effective roadblock. “Now you’re playin’ dirty pool. I don’t take kindly to bein’ pushed around.”

Albertson stood his ground. “I don’t much care what you like. I got people breathin’ down my neck for a breakthrough in this case. So if you get one, I expect to hear about it. Understood?”

“And what do I get in return?”

“You get to keep your license.”

“Not good enough.”

Albertson frowned. “We’re bound to figure out who the victim was eventually. If we do, you’ll be the first one I tell. And if you get a name first, I’ll let you run it through the FBI databases. You’ll get more info in ten minutes online than you could get from a month of pounding the pavement.”

Loving considered. That was at least marginally tempting.

“And I won’t press charges.”

“Huh? For what?”

“Destruction of private and public property. Assault with a deadly weapon. Apparently you attacked two men and ran over one of them with your automobile.”

“They were tryin’ to kill me!”

“That’s your story. A lot of the witnesses thought you were the bad guy. Thought you were on the lam from the police.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Crazy enough to keep you in jail for a very long time awaiting trial. The D.C. courts are so overcrowded these days.”

“I don’t believe you’d do that.”

“But can you be sure?”

“You’ve always seemed like a kinda sorta honest person. So far.”

“I’m taking that as a compliment.”

“Suit yourself.”

“But the threat still stands.”

“All right, already. We’ll share.” Loving poked him with a finger. “But don’t forget. This is supposed to be a two-way street.”

“I won’t,” Albertson said.

“Good. You’ve got my cell number.”

They returned to the police station, having circled the entire block.

“Enjoyed our little chat,” Loving said.

“Likewise, I’m sure. Stay in touch.”

Loving watched as Albertson trotted up the stairs. Albertson was desperate, plain and simple. Didn’t know what was going on, didn’t have a clue how to proceed, so he was grasping at straws. Even the particularly desperate straw of aligning himself with a private investigator. The problem was, Loving really didn’t know what to do next. His only lead was lying in the morgue. The pond scum who had put him on to her had disappeared. He had nothing, except a queasy feeling formed by the knowledge that someone had wanted him dead—and probably still did.

Well, he’d figure something out, right? Back to pounding the streets. He turned and—

The man was standing so close behind Loving that he’d bumped into him before he could stop himself. He took a step back to gain a clearer view.

The man in front of him raised his sunglasses slightly as a sort of salute. His right hand was in the pocket of his overcoat. There was a bulge in the pocket that resembled the barrel of a gun. “Hello again.”

It was Leon.