Senator Love (4 page)

"He ask about it?"

"About what?"

"The bones, for crying out loud." Her level of
irritability was rising. Fatigue was taking its toll.

"Not a word," he said. It was obvious, too, that
his mind was busy elsewhere.

"Just another murder waiting to be solved," she
said with disgust. She looked at the files on Cates' desk. "We can barely
keep up as it is."

She felt her energy flagging, but mustered just enough to
tell him what Dr. Benton had discovered. He listened intently, then went back
to reading the files on his desk. Suddenly he lifted his head.

"The lab came back on that bracelet," he said. He
pulled it out of his desk drawer, still in a plastic container, but now
sparkling like new.

"Oh," she said, only mildly curious.

"We had it wrong. Must have been the light."

"Had what wrong?"

He took it out of its bag and held it between thumb and
forefinger, dangling it.

"It wasn't Mabel. It read My Bet."

She held out her hand and he dropped it into her palm. She
took it, felt it. It was almost weightless and very thin. She read the engraved
letters.

"My Bet," she said.

"Somebody's Bet," Cates said, nodding.

A new wave of disgust rolled over her. The symbolism gnawed
at her, sparking anger. Had that meant that the woman had given herself away,
sold her soul?

In her business the dead often had a message for the
living. She wasn't quite sure what that was, but this she knew: This girl was
screaming through the dust of more than a decade, demanding her attention.

BEFORE SHE went home that night, she and Cates went over
possible name variations for a missing-person trace, Bette, Betty, Beth,
Elisabeth, Mary Beth and any similar combinations. They asked for a computer
sweep for the years 1977 and 1978 and left it at that.

The next day they worked on the contemporary open cases and
put My Bet on the back burner. Nor did the eggplant have anything to say on the
subject. The
Washington Post
gave it a paragraph in the back of the
paper adjacent to the obits. The site of the discovery was described as a
backyard in Northwest Washington. The story ended with the line that "the
police were investigating." Such scanty details reinforced the notion
that, barring anything of real import, the case was heading into limbo.

They spent the afternoon chasing down promising leads on an
unsolved case in a drug-related stabbing, picked up a prime suspect in Northeast Washington and brought him downtown. The man, who was the manager of a fast-food
franchise, had been interrogated before and had been released for lack of
evidence.

But timing and pressure had a way of working their
synergism. The man, who at the time of the murder had managed to conceal his
drug habit had, in an effort to kick his habit, signed up at a methadone
center. Then he had dropped out, which indicated that he was probably back on
drugs.

If the eggplant hadn't been pressing on the open cases at
just that point in time, the man would have gotten away scot-free. As it was,
they were able to squeeze the man through deprivation, and his confession came
in record time. It encouraged the eggplant to press them to do more on these
old cases, and he held a meeting in the squad room offering rare compliments
for Fiona and Cates for their efforts.

It seemed to put the cap on his interest in the case of the
old bones, as she was referring to it in her mind. Nevertheless, it continued
to nag at her, overriding all her efforts to put it in perspective.

The fact was that remains, whether buried or simply cast
away in remote places, were invariably young women under 21, a prime target of
opportunity. A high percentage of these were sexually molested. Many were naked
or seminaked, obviously subjected before their deaths to the most unbearable
and painful humiliations.

As a woman, Fiona had been especially appalled by these
statistics. Also, she had never become completely inured to the horrible sight
of these young female corpses, their features etched forever in the death mask
of horror, their unseeing eyes offering compelling evidence of their violation.
Just to see them in that state was all the motivation that Fiona ever needed to
pursue their murderers with all the single-minded purpose she could muster.
Despite this obvious kinship, Fiona felt that a great effort of will was needed
on her part to force her objectivity when confronted with such cases, mostly to
show her male colleagues that the gender of sisterhood did not set off an
emotional vulnerability that might diminish her in their eyes.

My Bet, although merely bones, triggered even more of this
effect and required even more masking of emotion. Indeed, the features that her
imagination concocted seemed more horrifying than those recorded when her eyes
actually bore witness to a violated female corpse with all the flesh intact.

She had arranged to meet Monte Pappas at the Jockey Club
and had dressed in the ladies room and returned to the squad room, where she
found Cates on the phone. He flagged her attention and mimed "missing
persons." She was already late, but she waited until Cates had completed
the call.

"Like falling off the roof," Cates said.
"Actually a half-dozen female Bet possibilities, but one that fills the
bill head-on." He read from a pad. "Betty Taylor, age 20, white,
five-four, 110 pounds, grey eyes, raven hair." He shook his head and
looked up and said: "Coming alive. Like watching a developing Polaroid
shot." He continued. "Call reporting her missing came in from her
mother, an Emma Taylor in Fredericksburg. Virginia. No trace. Gone with the
wind."

"Not the wind, Cates," she said shaking her head.

"I got the mother's name and address." He
shrugged and smiled. "Sometimes it's easy."

"Not often enough," she said.

He looked at her and smiled. "Heavy date?"

"More ways than one," she said.

As she turned, the eggplant was coming out of his office.

"Lookin' good, FitzGerald." He winked. He was
always in a better mood on Fridays. He had spread the word among the division
that his weekends were sacrosanct. If he had to be summoned, one had to be
prepared to face the consequences.

"Thanks, Chief."

With him, Fiona knew, a compliment was as scarce as a
snowstorm in July. In fact, he rarely complimented anyone on their appearance,
especially females. For some reason, she decided to take advantage of his
upbeat mood.

"We think we have a fix on our old bones," she
said, glancing quickly at Cates, looking for support. She found none. He had
turned away.

"Must we, FitzGerald?" the eggplant said, shaking
his head. The sunny weather in his expression changed abruptly.

"Won't hurt to check it out," she said, trying to
head off any impending storm.

"But it will, you see. It will hurt time. Time is more
precious than riches. In this place, time is our most important
commodity." He was starting to launch one of his sarcastic tirades,
gaining momentum. "We have lots of recent travesties against women that
need solving. There are more than enough modern-day killers to keep us busy. In
fact, we need an army just to keep up with the traffic."

He was right, of course. But agreement would get her
nowhere.

"There's a lot of cache in solving an old crime. Shows
we're on the ball."

"Shows who?" the eggplant said with contempt.

"Him?" She moved her head in the general
direction of the Mayor's office.

"He, too, has his head in the immediate present.
Therefore..." He paused and focused a penetrating gaze on her face.
"...Do you capish?"

"I understand Spanish, Captain."

"Funny lady."

What she understood, of course, was that the Mayor had
given him his marching orders and he was marching. She could hear the crack of
the Mayor's bark. "I win. You win, Luther." Winning for Luther was
becoming Police Commissioner in the next administration. Inwardly, he may have
railed against such manipulation and kowtowing, but he surely understood what
running after such a carrot meant. So did Fiona. The idea of being thwarted
could make him very mean.

"Who would know better about such matters, FitzGerald.
You, a Senator's daughter."

Whenever he needed to batter her with stinging ridicule, he
would pull that from his quiver of sarcasms. As always, it struck her deep and
hard.

"Are you saying we shouldn't pursue this?" she
said, the challenge in her voice clear.

"Did I say that?" The anger in the retort was
meant to be intimidating. She realized suddenly that she had, indeed, picked
the wrong time. Most of all, he seemed to resent her for forcing a change in
his mood. All goodwill in his earlier expression had clapped shut and he
stormed out of the squad room.

"Go ahead," she told the slammed door.
"Doodoo on integrity."

"Let go, Fi. Poor bastard is between a rock and a hard
place."

She waited until her anger subsided, then she motioned with
her chin to the pad that lay on the desk in front of Cates. "Poor Betty
Taylor might have some comments on that old chestnut."

NATURALLY, MONTE had arranged a good table in the front
room of the Jockey Club. Martine, the headwaiter, fussed and fawned and Monte
did a round robin of handshakes to those among the privileged and influential
seated at nearby tables.

"Politics is perception," he said, smiling,
satisfied that his restaurant clout and performance had impressed her. His mood
was ebullient, jovial, a far cry from the whining cynicism of the other night.
Yet he made it clear in his attitude and demeanor that it was all part of the
game not to be taken seriously and certainly not to be confused with the real
Monte Pappas.

She ordered a vodka martini. He raised two shaggy eyebrows
and cocked his head, then doubled the order.

"Nevertheless," he said, "I've placed severe
limitations on the intake. Tonight, I'm determined to get high only on the
company."

The martinis came and they clinked glasses. She took a deep
sip, hoping to let go of the anger that still clawed at her.

"And how was your day, honey?" he asked.

"You noticed?"

"Is the Pope Catholic?"

"I shouldn't take it home," she said. "I
should be dispassionate. It's not professional."

"Passion is good," he chuckled. "At the
proper time." The double entendre rode through the air like a Mack truck.
He was so transparent, it was almost refreshing. Also boyish and unsure. He
reminded her of a small, cuddly bear, all soft and furry. Yet his seduction
attempt seemed more focused than the other night. Then he had been sidetracked
by other concerns. Now he appeared eager and obvious, although the objective was
probably less of a priority than he allowed himself to believe.

She knew the type well from her days observing her father's
political groupies. Politics was all, an addictive obsession, and the heat of
the campaign was the orgasmic nadir of their lives. Even the winning or losing
was secondary to the action of it, the involvement, the emotional roller
coaster that struggled up the track to elation and bottomed out in depression.
Up and down. Down and up. She was not surprised that he was divorced. Such men,
or women, feared any relationship that inhibited their addiction. Often,
perhaps more often than others, they needed the solace and validation of a
truly human experience. Although never permanent, their relationships were,
nevertheless, intense and sincere within their parameters of compressed time
and tenuous involvement.

Perhaps that was why she was comfortable with Monte Pappas.
She understood him. He was a classic specimen of the genre. Watching him across
the table, his soft brown eyes observing her, his smile flashing out all the
charm he could muster, his soft, slightly chubby fingers with their scraggly
spines of black hairs nervously strumming the checkered tablecloth, she decided
that, barring an unforeseen turnoff, she would sleep with him tonight.

"Things must be going well," she said, determined
to erase the tension of her confrontation with the eggplant. Nothing must
interfere with the broadcasting of her intentions. Although she knew what
buttons to press for the political side of him, she had heard that Greek men
were very complicated and acted only when they were absolutely certain that
they would not be rebuffed. This required, she assumed, sending clear signals
of consent, yet allowing him to feel that he was making a conquest.

"You betcha," he said, looking about him at the
others in the small front room. He bent closer to her and lowered his voice.
"We got him to kick it."

"Kick it?" She was confused.

"The habit," he whispered. She continued to be
puzzled, definitely not getting his shorthand. His nostrils flared as he sucked
in a deep breath. "The habit," he repeated. "He's mothballing
the torpedo."

The image was strongly suggestive, considering where her
own thoughts had headed, and it triggered her understanding.

"The Senator?" she asked. He quickly put a finger
on his lips and shook his head. Only then did he nod and smile his
confirmation.

She remembered his running commentary on the escapades of
Sam Langford. Also, the subtle erotic manner in which he had danced with the
beautiful Helga. And, if the truth be known, with herself.

"And just how did you accomplish his acceptance of
this extraordinary feat of self-denial?"

She quickly fell into the pattern of shorthand that they
had adopted to protect the conversation from the ears of the adjacent diners.
Paranoia was a rampant Washington disease, and an overheard conversation,
especially this one, had enormous currency.

"Read him the riot act." He lowered his voice
still further and she had to strain to hear him. "I told him. Take heavy
doses of saltpeter. Concentrate on one aberration at a time. Make love to the
TV camera. He's a master of that as well. You just can't play in this game with
your fly open. He has everything going for him. Good looks. Articulate as hell.
Good-looking family. A great record. Dead-center on most issues. No rocka da
boat. The election committee is being formed. The do-re-me is on its way. If we
go, he has the whole primary thing ahead of him and the press will go over his
life with a hundred-power telescope. Like the honeybadger, first thing they go
for is the crotch." He chuckled at his humor and took another sip of his
martini.

"But can he hide his past completely?" Fiona
asked, remembering her father's media wars.

"No. But he's been pretty cagey. And he's had old
Bunkie to camouflage his peccadillos and 'Dear John' them when things got
sticky."

The idea, perhaps the cavalier way in which he described
it, offended her.

"And they all go quietly, I suppose."

"Let's say not disruptively. They haven't made waves,
which means he's been lucky enough to escape the wrath of female outrage."
He shrugged. "Maybe they figured they got their money's worth. On the
other hand some of them might have gained a leg up to that elusive place where
they were headed. That ring around the finger is not the only prize available
in the pantheon. In this town women gain clout if they have a powerful scalp on
their belt. Starfucking is a Washington sport with a paramutual payoff. There
are lots of subtle ways to reward sexual cooperation. Sometimes even the act
itself is reward enough. The fact is that, despite what you've read about
exceptions, the general rule is that disengagement occurs more often than
not."

She felt mildly offended by his observations, not because
they were inaccurate. More because they contained some raw truths about the
vulnerability of her gender peers.

"Don't dismiss the exceptions so easily, Monte. For
five minutes of fame and some serious bucks, women have been known to succumb.
Shall I tick off the careers that have been ruined by some who have not gone
quietly?" They had become household names with remarkable staying
power—Elizabeth Ray, Fannie Fox, Paula Parkinson, Donna Rice.

"Are you trying to ruin my evening?" he said,
half joking. She could detect the tiniest evidence of anxiety.

"Not at all. I just wanted to scrape some of the
smugness away. Women, I have observed in my work, can be quite vindictive. When
they murder, for example, the victim is invariably a husband or lover."

She was teasing him with the truth and it appeared to be
more than he bargained for. Worse, she worried that it would make him fear her,
which, she knew from experience, could be devastating to his libido.

She reached out and patted his chubby hand. It felt soft
and warm and comfortable.

"I'm not saying you didn't have it right. Just
offering my own knee-jerk defense. The fact is that none of us can be sure
about the motives of other human beings, male or female."

"You sound like a politician. Coming down on both
sides of the issue." He chuckled and caressed her hand. She hoped that her
warm flesh showed him the first happy signs of compliance.

"Anyway," he said, "we think we've got that
part of it on hold." He pursed his lips as if repressing a sly giggle.
"I can assure you, Fi, the double entendres are not intentional."

"Just good old-fashioned dirty talk," she said,
squeezing his hand, "never killed anybody." Their eyes locked for a
moment. Deliberately, she disengaged first, hoping he would see it as shyness,
and restore his sense of aggression. Not yet, she cautioned herself.

"So the beautiful Helga has been dispatched," she
said. Her voice had risen and she put a hand over her mouth. He looked about
him to see if she had attracted any attention. It appeared not.
"Sorry."

"Let's say the process has been initiated."

"And who does the doing?"

"Ve haf our methods," he mocked.

"Not the man himself?"

"We thought it unwise. He understands." He bent
closer. "Besides, she has her own problem."

"The Ambassador?"

"He likes his job. Perhaps he has overlooked the
affair deliberately to, copping another pun, save his own ass."

"She'll go quietly?"

"For her there is no choice."

"But what of love?" Fiona asked. Despite the
sarcasm, she knew her question had the bite of truth. Love has been known to be
a stimulator of bizarre and often counterproductive actions.

"Show me a single instance of a politician who gave up
his ambition for love. I have observed that political ambition is always more
powerful than love. My theory has always been that if King Edward the Seventh
had real power he would never have given up his throne for his ladylove."

"You have no romance in your soul," Fiona
whispered. He raised soft brown, imploring eyes.

"I'm only an advisor. My soul stays with me. Romance
and all."

He signaled the waiter, who offered his ceremony of the
specials, which they declined. Then he took their order, a salad for starters
and grilled soles for both of them. They ordered a French white.

"Crazy, isn't it," he said when the waiter had
gone, "that this issue should transcend all the others."

She sipped further on her martini. "What were the
grounds of his divorce?" He did not take offense at her curiosity. Nor did
she think the question was out of order. He trusted her and needed to tell, and
she was, after all, a detective.

"Not too bad, actually. They just agreed to
disentangle. You saw her. They're not buddies, but they exchange pleasantries.
Besides, he was very generous and they had no kids. The woman understood. Sam
spreads it around. That's Sam. Accept it or get the hell out. She chose the
latter. He was single for a whole year before he met Little Nell. Which means
you could never accuse her of being the vixen who broke up his first marriage.
That's very important. Besides, she's almost boringly traditional. Country
club, white bread-and-mayonnaise type."

"I saw a troubled lady."

"Very perceptive. Wouldn't you be, married to him? But
Little Nell gets high marks for dissimulation. She seems to go more for
appearances. Keeps her own counsel. That's the mark of a good political
wife."

"She's also human."

"And being so, she knows the value of a long leash.
Probably more upset by others seeing Sam playing pelvis touchee with the
beautiful Helga. That's appearances, a different mad than jealousy. But she
also knows that he has to keep it in the barn if he wants to be President. The
fact is that, for now, at least, she's won. No more sharing for a while. Until
he's President. Then he's got a whole army of Secret Service men to cover his
ass. Like Jack Kennedy. He did more exercise of the venery in office than
out."

"You say he was single for a year. Has to be media
grist in that."

He looked at her and shook his head.

"The affairs of a single man are not the stuff of
scandal-mongering. Sam's drive in that regard actually subsided. They tell me
that the lack of danger inhibits the intensity of the activity." He nodded
and upended his glass.

"That judgement, I assume, is based on personal
experience," she said. Her own as well, she thought. It had to do, she had
concluded, with time-frame and anxiety level. She had, after all, had
experiences with married men, an unwise exercise at best, although the
emotional and sexual intensity had been extraordinary.

There had been a touch of humorous sarcasm in the remark,
but he responded with dead seriousness.

"Has to do with comfort level, Fi. Even in a bad
marriage there is some security. Which leaves you the luxury of concentrating
more on the other." A sudden faint blush dappled his dark skin. "A
single person needs more than just..." His voice trailed off and he picked
up his martini and finished it, avoiding her gaze. He had revealed the full
extent of his vulnerability and at that moment it appealed to her. When he had
put down his glass, she edged her leg closer to him, felt it touch along the
side of the shinbone. He responded with his own pressure. Message sent. Reply
received.

The waiter brought their salads and for a few moments they
ate in silence. With the evening's agenda agreed to, they could both relax.

"I'm not saying it will be easy," he said, as if
there had been no break in the conversation. He had never left his sphere of
interest. Par for the genre, Fiona knew. A manifestation of the addiction.
Everything personal was also political.

"But I think we can mount a campaign with real legs.
It's a long haul. The election is two years away, but you've got to start the
ball rolling. He's a natural, don't you think? Hell, you know this business,
Fi. Is that man not the perfect candidate?"

"I have only one question, Monte."

"What's that?"

"What does he stand for?"

"That's simple," Monte said, picking at his
salad, his leg rubbing against hers. "He stands for getting elected."
She could feel his eyes studying her.

"And if he does get elected what will he stand
for?"