Authors: Warren Adler
Tags: #Fiction, Mystery and Detective, General, Women Sleuths, Political
Senator Love
BOOKS BY WARREN ADLER
Banquet Before Dawn
Blood Ties
Cult
Death of a Washington Madame
Empty Treasures
Flanagan's Dolls
Funny Boys
Madeline's Miracles
Mourning Glory
Natural Enemies
Private Lies
Random Hearts
Residue
The Casanova Embrace
The Children of the Roses
The David Embrace
The Henderson Equation
The Housewife Blues
The War of the Roses
The Womanizer
Trans-Siberian Express
Twilight Child
Undertow
We Are Holding the President
Hostage
SHORT STORIES
Jackson Hole, Uneasy Eden
Never Too Late For Love
New York Echoes
New York Echoes 2
The Sunset Gang
MYSTERIES
American Sextet
American Quartet
Immaculate Deception
Senator Love
The Ties That Bind
The Witch of Watergate
Copyright © 1991 by Warren Adler.
ISBN 978-1-59006-094-0
All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced
in any form without permission. This novel is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places, incidents are either the product
of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Inquiries: WarrenAdler.com
STONEHOUSE PRESS
For Sunny, again.
"NOT GARFIELD," Fiona FitzGerald whispered,
looking over Monte Pappas' thick shoulder as they scrutinized the seating list.
A sweet-faced young woman suitably festooned in the costume of a colonial dame
had handed them the list along with a toothpaste-sincere smile.
The Pepsi company had pulled out all stops for this annual
bash of ingratiation for the celebration and benefit of the Congress and the
diplomatic corps, a high-profile wingding, a not-so-subtle thank-you for
helping or, alas, not interfering with spreading the international cheer of
feel-good bellywash. Fiona, influenced by Monte Pappas' Public-Relations-Man
cynicism and her own extensive Washington experience did not wish to think such
spoiling thoughts. But how was it to be avoided?
The company had hired the hallowed plantation of George
Washington's Mount Vernon, no less, put up a giant tent on a side lawn adjacent
to the main house to hold more than 350 people and was laying on a five-course
gourmet supper served by an army of white-gloved waiters on tables set with
gleaming china and topped with elaborate floral centerpieces. Each table was
designated by a Presidential name written in impeccable calligraphy on white
board. For whatever inexplicable reason, although Fiona knew that such things
were carefully orchestrated, they had drawn President Garfield.
There was a ten-piece band and a dance floor laid down in
the tent's center and a large area set aside for the cocktail hour, a set piece
of Washington entertaining devoted to the usual networking, influence-hustling
and double-cheeking.
Some surely might have thought it defamatory for this
national shrine to be invaded by the bellywashers and their freeloading
minions, but this, as Monte had pointed out so aptly on the horse-drawn
carriage ride from the Potomac river dock to the tent, was the age of corporate
"Kultur" and thus the bash was a singularly appropriate exercise in
one-upmanship. Besides, he had added, "Who else could afford it?"
They had glided into the Mount Vernon dock on charter boats
moored on Main Street, which was closer to Capitol Hill, taking the slow ride
the few miles downriver while a band played dance music and the bartenders
merrily poured champagne. The April air was damp with the gamey odor of the
awakening earth and there was more than a hint of a spring rain.
For Fiona, a Senator's daughter, weaned on the heady and
subtle sweetness of Washington milk, the event went beyond the genre, and no
amount of cynicism could dampen the sheer wonder and chutzpa of the idea. All
right, so it was charmingly decadent, perhaps even a tiny defamation of this
historical icon. But, hell, it was, after all, a slave plantation in old
George's day and, therefore, not politically perfect by today's political standards.
So what was wrong with such a choice spot for a bit of vulgar fun?
The rooms of the mansion house, with the exception of the
entry foyer, were verboten to guests, and an impressive multitude of gleaming
white johnny-on-the-spots, reached through a tented corridor, were arranged in
a picket line adjacent to the main big top. It struck her that in-house johns
were not a feature in old George's day and, therefore, the facilities were
historically appropriate, which represented a saving grace of sorts.
There were moments, and this might be one of them, when she
felt somewhat superior to the situation, a trifle too all-knowing and cynically
cocksure. Monte Pappas, a gun-for-hire on any political campaign that could pay
his price, wasn't shy about catering to and embellishing this attitude. He had,
after all, adopted it as his everyday business pose. Fiona had already
penetrated that part of him and seen the vulnerable sweetness under the facade,
which titillated her motherly and less-platonic instincts.
"So ask me," he had challenged her as they stood
on the rail of the charter boat watching movie-set Washington twinkle past.
"Why do they do it?"
It was his invitation, and she was only "and
guest," and he was entitled to her version of the answer.
"Influence," she said.
"And
ego,"
he instructed. "Never
forget ego. For one shining moment the Chairman gets to beat his breast in
front of the power elite. The message is: 'Look at all my marbles, people. See
'em. Count 'em. Respect 'em. I'll throw some in your game if you be nice. And
if you take them, by God, you better be nice to me.'"
"So what else is new," she replied.
"Who's talking new?" Pappas said, his arm
enveloping her, touching her shoulder, squeezing lightly. She could feel his
breath as he bent over to kiss her ear. Of course, he was executing his version
of a seduction. This was, after all, their second official date, although they
had known each other casually on the social circuit for years, part of her
non-cop life.
He was dark, stocky and, as they say, forensically
speaking, well nourished. Even in his tux he looked lumpyâhis cummerbund did
not seem like a good idea. But she liked his shifty, street-smart moves,
especially his know-it-all throwaways that sometimes passed for wisdom, and in
the context of when said, often seemed to cut into the heart of some simple
truth.
The darkness of his beard suggested that his slightly
inflated soft body was covered with a carpet of tightly matted jet-black curly
hair, although she did not broadcast her curiosity. Put him down for a maybe,
she decided. At the moment she preferred to keep matters on a plateau of
sophisticated Washington banter.
Under the tent, they headed for one of the bars, threading
their way through layers of familiar political and social faces. She knew some
of them, stopping to chat as she moved through the crowd, offering her face for
the occasional double-cheeker. Monte, too, worked the crowd in his own way,
pressing the flesh, offering a wink or a bear hug where appropriate.
It was the Washington social way, peculiar unto itself, as
comfortable to her as an old glove, despite her chosen profession. Always she
marveled at the contrast, the Jekyll-and-Hyde aspect of her life, never quite
knowing which part of it was the truth of herself.
Monte brought her champagne, taking a neat scotch for
himself. It looked like a double. They moved to a quiet spot to survey the
scene.
"Why the sigh over Garfield?" Monte asked.
"One of the bumped-off ones," she replied.
"Hope there's no symbolism there," Monte said,
casting his gaze about in mock fear. "I need every client I can get."
He could tell she was confused.
"It's Sam Langford's table," Monte explained. On
their first date he had told her that Sam was a client, that he had run his two
winning Senatorial campaigns.
An inveterate political watcher, a habit from her youth as
the daughter of Senator Edward FitzGerald, Fiona knew who Langford was. Twice
Senator from Florida, a comer, bright, handsome, fashionably conservative,
terrific speaker.
"He's about to stretch himself," Monte whispered
as they moved toward the table. She recognized Langford standing near an
attractive woman and chatting with a young couple.
"The big banana?" she asked.
"Why not?" Monte shrugged. "He's got it
all." He lowered his voice to a mood-changing mutter. "Maybe too
much." Then raised it again on a note of optimism. "Be a great shot
for yours truly."
"Here he is," Langford said as he spied Monte,
"the Greek Oracle."
Dimples,
Fiona thought. He
has cute dimples and thick wavy light-brown hair going gracefully to grey, she
remarked to herself. And blue eyes to boot. Not too tall, but flat-gutted and
athletic looking.
Introductions were exchanged. The attractive woman beside
him was Nell Langford, his wifeâtall, blonde, squeaky clean and smiley. Taken
right off the shelf marked "obedient political wife," Fiona decided
instantly. Somehow her smile seemed overly joyous in contrast to her eyes,
which were sad and wary, confusing Fiona's first impression.
The younger man was introduced as Bunkie Farrington, who
then introduced his date, a Bonnie something. Bunkie! The name itself seemed a
definition of the man. He wore a high-collared tux shirt and a red bow tie.
Blondish, balding, ferret-eyed, mid-thirties, his entire demeanor said, "Color
me preppy forever." Instantly she knew she had him pegged. Langford's
political lackey.
Odd, she thought, how some men telescope their personas so
accurately. Or was it her cop training? She could hear his credo: "I'd go
through the fires of hell for that man," meaning Langford, as if he were
joined to the man's hip. By this, he surely reasoned, there would be the big
payoff for old Bunkie. She sniffed him, figured him for a shade over 25. He
stank of ambition. The aroma was always gamier at that age. He had just handed
the Senator and his wife two drinks taken from a silver tray carried by one of
the ambulatory white-gloved waiters. Only then did he serve himself and Bonnie
something.
"Pappas says you're a cop," Langford said.
"Rest easy, Senator, you're not under suspicion."
He roared his laughter, then looked at Monte. "There's
your man," he said, pointing to the bulging middle behind Monte's
cummerbund. "He's hiding the jewels in there."
"Sam,"
Nell said
with disapproval too genuine to be good natured.
"Not her bag, Senator," Pappas shot back, masking
his wound. "She's homicide."
"Heavy," Bunkie said, his interest elsewhere as
his networking, predatory eyes scoped the tent. In a flash he spotted prey,
moved out and led a distinguished-looking bemedaled gentlemen to the Senator's
side.
"You know Ambassador Blackburn," he said as the
Senator proceeded to press flesh. Of course, they knew each other casually, but
this was simply another moment for the Senator to show the flag to a
representative of a powerful country. The two men chewed over the small-talk
amenities appropriate to the event and parted.
"Grist for expanding one's experience in the area of
foreign affairs," Monte whispered. "He's the Brit."
During the exchange, Bunkie continued to survey the crowd,
found another victim, zeroed in and struck. Senator Sam never moved, the idea
being to bring the mountains to Mohammed. Sun never sets on good old Bunkie,
Fiona thought, noting her instant dislike of the man. With good reason, she
decided.
His persona was a Washington category, the preppy
sycophant, sucking up power and warmth from Langford's rays, a staff man
outside the line of real legislative work. An image of what was surely his
daily dress code popped into her mind. Polka-dot bow tie on a button-down
striped shirt. Pants held up by suspenders decorated with ducks. Patterned
long-shorts underwear. As a kid he would have scared the shit out of a cat with
a cigarette lighter. Going too far, she decided, reigning in her bile, her
thoughts drifting back to present tense.
"My name is Kessel," a man's voice said behind
her in a clearly Germanic cadence. "And I've been assigned to Garfield."
"Hans," Senator Langford said, putting out his
hand while an arm crept about the man's shoulders.
"The Austrian Ambassador and the lovely Helga,"
Monte whispered with an air of unmistakable contempt. Langford planted a
double-cheeker on a spectacularly beautiful lady in a pink sheath gown. Around
her neck she wore a dazzling ruby necklace with matching earrings. A diamond
bracelet hung around one wrist and an assortment of rings decorated graceful
white fingers.
The woman's eyes sparkled with pleasure as she beheld the
Senator from behind high cheekbones, holding the gaze longer than what might be
considered appropriate.
"Does it show?" Monte hissed.
"The jewelry?"
"You know what I mean."
Before she could reply the answer was irrevocably
telescoped in Nell Langford's barely perceptible lip tremor as she nodded
toward the Ambassador's wife. An attempt at smiling would have created jagged
fissures on her face.
"I was so happy when I saw the seating list," the
Austrian Ambassador said. Fiona cut a glance at Bunkie, hoping for a wink. None
came, of course. He did not even acknowledge her look. But she knew it was he
who had arranged the seating. She was puzzled by the Ambassador's pleasure over
the seating.
The band began to play soft dinner music and the guests
began to straggle to their seats. The Austrian Ambassador took his place beside
Nell, and Helga glided gracefully to a seat to the right of the Senator. Bunkie
flanked her on the other side. Beside him, responding to the appropriate
male-female protocol and much to her distaste, came Fiona. Thankfully, she had
Monte on her right.
An army of white-gloved waiters fanned out to place the
salad and pour the white wine. Fiona suspected that they would pay some lip
service to the "turn" between courses, although she decided that old
Bunkie would be deliberately attentive to Helga to cover for the Senator's
being overly conspicuous in his ministrations to the lady.
"Damn fool," Monte whispered in her ear.
"Bastard's got an Achilles' crotch."
"An occupational hazard," Fiona sighed,
remembering her father and her mother's pain.
"This one's got a political death wish," Monte
said. She could tell he was genuinely annoyed. "He'll blow it. I know he
will. A need-to-conquer syndrome like poor Gary Hart." He shook his head.
"Zip it up, schmuck," he muttered under his breath.
"Maybe he wants to get caught," Fiona said,
spooning out traditional cop philosophy.
"He gets caught, I get nada," Monte sighed.
"Sad case. Man's got it all. Looks. Brains. Good projection.
Articulate." He shook his head.
"Seems he's done all right so far, despite his ... ah
... predisposition to being a satyr," Fiona said.
"The media x-ray is a surfacey thing in a Senatorial
campaign. In a Presidential it goes to the bone." She looked at him
archly, catching the inadvertent pun. Finally he laughed and took a deep sip of
his wine. "Look at me," he chuckled, "so concerned with another
man's sex life." He sighed theatrically. "No justice anywhere. He
feasts. I starve. Maybe there's more to it than just business." He paused.
"Like jealousy."