The Price of Candy (17 page)

“You might be on to something, but let the
police take it from here. You’re going to his home? He’ll never see
you.”

“He’ll see me. I always get in to see
everybody. I’ll go in the morning. He’ll be shook when he hears
about Toby’s murder and that I know Abby paid him a visit. Maybe I
can bluff him into blurting something out. I’m pretty good at
that.”

“I doubt it with this man. Politicians are
experts at evasion. Ask them one question and they’ll answer a
different one. And there’s a much more serious reason for you not
to go. Suppose they both were on the beach, and some kind of foul
play went down. Only Toby knows that Kidde was there. I think that
gives Congressman Kidde an excellent motive for shooting Toby last
night. I don’t think it’d be wise for you to go down there.”

“Or, he shoots Toby to eliminate a
blackmailer and scare off Abby. Not bad. Well, I’m going in spite
of your objections. He’s not going to murder me in his house. I
need to get ready for seeing him. Can I get a copy of the Police
Report on the Privado Beach affair and the M.E. report?”

“Police Report, no problem. The forensic
autopsy report isn’t available yet.”

“Not available? It’s been months. What’s the
holdup?”

“There’s info in there we don’t want the
media to publicize.”

“You mean kinky, prurient interest
stuff?”

“Not really. Just info on what we did and
didn’t find.”

“Triney already told me there’s no trace
evidence, no usable DNA.”

“Apparently he doesn’t hesitate to confide in
you.”

“So tell me, what’s the big secret to be
found in the medical examiner’s report?”

“No biggie. The M.E. was going to guess the
victim was some kind of dancer or showgirl except she had waxed
away her pubic hair.”

“Triney didn’t mention the bikini wax job.
But dancers and showgirls do that as well,” she offered.

“I mean completely, not trimmed, not merely
around and about. Brazilian waxing he called it. Smooth as a
porcelain plate. We never release that type of detail to the media
because it’s nobody’s business. Invasion of privacy and all that,
not that she had any left. Also, it’s a detail only the perp would
know, so that little fact might be used later to validate a
suspect.”

“Some ordinary women do it. Not that unusual,
salons and spas routinely do it. Brazilian waxing.”

“Sure, it might not have anything to do with
her occupation.”

“Any trace of tanning chemicals?”

“Tanning chemicals?”

“Performers use spray tans to get beautiful
looking skin. It’s a whole industry. Also, I heard that strippers
generally have boob jobs. Was that checked out?”

“I don’t know about the tanning thing. But I
can tell you this woman didn’t need any boob enhancement. With the
shaving, the physique, and the theatrical makeup the M.E. went with
stripper. Didn’t make any difference to us. We were going for an
occupation simply for ID and to lead to a suspect.”

“So the wax job is why I can’t have the M.E.
report.”

“Look, any M.E. report is thick with
insignificant details about hair coloring, fingernail polish, mouth
and teeth details, blood details...on and on.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you when I get back from
seeing the congressman. I need to go online now and read everything
the media ever put out about the beach body affair. Get that Police
Report for me today, okay?”

“I know that look. Something else is churning
in that brain of yours, isn’t it?”

“You didn’t tell me it was you who found her
body.”

“I didn’t find her body. Where’d you hear
that? Some citizen reported it. I was merely the first police to
respond.”

“You just told me the woman didn’t need a
boob job. How did you know she didn’t already have one? How did you
know they were real?”

“You’re getting crazy. I’ve no idea whether
they were real. It was just a dumb comment that she didn’t need any
enhancement, meaning they were adequate. I didn’t touch her
breasts, if that’s what you’re asking. I checked for a pulse. After
that, all my attention went to preserving the crime scene. That’s
all. End of story. Anyway, no mention of breast enhancement was in
the M.E. report.”

“You mean the one I can’t see.”

He walked to the door shaking his head.
Before he closed the door he said, “Watch yourself with Congressman
Kidde. That’s big time stuff. In the meantime, get a grip on
yourself.”

She stood and thought about running after
him. Damn her suspicious nature. What was her problem? Why was she
so on edge? She was personally involved in too much. It was
stressful. She was worried about Jamie, who had confided in her.
Trust me Jamie, I know how to handle these things.
Was Jamie
safe? Was she alive? That preoccupation alone had prompted her to
be reckless and enter Abby’s house. There was the obvious stress
from her near-death experience with Toby and the shooting. And she
was concerned with her own situation knowing Moran could slap her
back in jail and put her entire life on hold.

Too much stress. That was her excuse for
making those silly statements to Chip. Connecting the dots is what
made her effective. But too much connecting is an excellent way of
alienating your significant other.

It would be a good day; Sandy tried to keep
that in her mind. The morning was cold and damp. The wind had
clocked around and now blew cold air down from Canada. A front was
moving through and gray clouds were interrupting Florida’s endless
summer. What else? Chip was no doubt annoyed with her, she hadn’t
slept well, and was presently irritated because with the foul
weather her convertible top must stay up. She told herself again it
would be a good day. A good day for the boring drive down U.S. 1 to
Jensen Beach. A good day to confront a stuffed-shirt politician and
have him say he’d never heard of Abby Olin, and would she please
see herself out. She stopped for coffee. That helped. She told
herself the day wouldn’t be so bad after all and almost believed
it.

Eventually, her GPS told her to turn off U.S.
1. After several turns toward the ocean, she wound around on a
ribbon of spotless asphalt under a canopy of palm trees among the
large houses and beachfront condominiums of an upscale
neighborhood. Landscaped gardens and manicured grass flowed around
the posh residences like a never-ending golf green. Where there
wasn’t green, there were impressive vistas of water. She stopped
between two brass lantern-topped pillars at the foot of a long
driveway.

The house of Congressman Frederick J. Kidde,
up a slight hill and hidden behind shrubbery and oak trees, was
grand and spacious and sat far back from an oversized sloping lawn.
Not quite a mansion, yet large and impressive. Of course it’s all
grand and glorious, she remembered; there are people who live that
way. She swung her Miata convertible up into the circular driveway
and parked unobtrusively away from the portico entry. She
reconsidered. Her sporty MX-5 wouldn’t look out of place parked in
front of the Whitehouse. What the hell. She moved up and parked
directly in front of the entry.

The residence was of a scale that a maid in
black and white wouldn’t have surprised her. Instead, a stylish
woman with her hair in a classic French twist and wearing beige
linen Capri pants with matching top opened the door. She guessed it
was Mrs. Kidde. She was wrong.

“I’m Mrs. Wolff, his secretary. Are you a
constituent? I’m sorry, the Congressman doesn’t receive here at his
residence. His Florida office is downtown. I’m sure you appreciate
this is a private home. Let me give you the office address.”

“I’m Sandra Reid. Mr. Kidde will be handling
something nonpolitical for me. He’ll want to see me immediately.”
Sandy stepped passed the woman into the foyer. The woman had no
choice but to close the door behind her.

The woman studied the smile Sandy had frozen
on her face. “Wait here please.” She returned in a few minutes.
“Regretfully, the congressman will be engaged entirely this
morning. But he does want to talk with you. If you could give me
your phone number, he’ll be certain to call you as soon as
possible.”

“Mrs. Wolff, I understand your problem. I
really do. But skip the ‘Your call is important to us, that’s why
we’re putting you on hold’ routine. It’s wasted on me. Now please
go and actually speak to him and tell him I’m here.”

The secretary gave a cynical shrug meaning
Kidde should screen his own visitors. Again with the, “Wait here.”
After five minutes, she came back and escorted Sandy across the
glowing hardwood floors to the congressman’s home office located at
the rear of the house.

Congressman Frederic J. Kidde stood at a
large teak desk in front of a built-in teak bookcase that stretched
across one long wall of the wood-paneled office. Windows and French
doors were opposite, looking out on an lush span of green around
the pool and patio area. A perimeter of sabal palms looked down on
the peaceful green. Abundant ferns and sculptured shrubs bordered a
large terraced area then a broad span of lush lawn sloped down to a
shiny-white sport fishing boat undulating comfortably at a private
dock on the wide canal.

The secretary surely had far more important
things to do than play hostess, nevertheless she waited politely
until his offer of iced tea was turned down. She left and Sandy was
alone with the congressman.

“What should I call you, your Honor,
Congressman Kidde, or what?”

“Freddy.” He motioned toward the over-stuffed
leather armchair facing his desk.

She sat comfortably in the offered chair and
looked about the room. On the wall behind his desk was a row of
photographs displayed in matching teak frames across the wall. In
each, a smiling Congressman Kidde was posed shaking hands with
various men. All distinguished looking and all unrecognizable to
her except for George H. W. Bush. Sitting now, in real life at his
desk, Kidde appeared pleasant, middle-aged, and utterly uptight. So
serious in his dark suit and tie, it wouldn’t have surprised her if
the coat was permanently buttoned. His rigid formality reminded her
of the affluent characters in old movies wearing tuxedos and gowns
for a routine dinner at home, sitting alone at opposite ends of an
impossibly long table.

“I apologize for walking in on a U.S.
Representative,” she began. “I’ve a confession to make. I don’t
know who you are. I’ve never heard of you.”

“Senators get all the publicity. Congressmen
come and go, although I’ve stayed around awhile. You’d better
register so you can vote for me. I’m a seven-term congressional
representative. Chairman of the House Subcommittee on Natural
Resources. Have you heard of the Kidde-Hartford Act? Possibly the
best known and consequential of all the laws I’ve sponsored. It
prevents coastal communities from building structures that impede
recreational boating on the Intracoastal....” He stopped when he
noticed she was looking up at the hand carved coving in the corners
of the high ceiling. “Excuse the commercial. And who are you
again?”

“Sandy Reid. I’m the one that’s going to
cause you a hellava lot of trouble or help you clear up everything.
Your choice.” She thought that sounded impertinent enough to get
his attention and take control of the conversation.

He chuckled for the last time that morning.
“God, what am I into now?”

“The situation up in Park Beach.” She didn’t
know how she came up with that broad bluff, but it covered a wide
area of possibilities. A shotgun is best if you don’t know what
you’re shooting at. It did the trick. Kidde reacted badly. He
didn’t need to pound his head down on the desk; the distress on his
face said it all.

“Park Beach isn’t within my congressional
district,” he said weakly, trying to recover. “I think you’ve made
a mistake.”

“We have to talk about Toby.”

“I don’t believe I know the name.”

“No? How about the frizzy blonde who was here
three days ago?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now
I’m busy. I think perhaps you should leave.”

In her former job as field investigator, she
had perfected a phrase that invariably convinced guilty people she
already knew what she was trying to find out. The all-purpose
phrase was so broad that it worked with every conceivable
wrongdoing from a petty mistake to murder. She’d say the words,
look sympathetically at the person, and wait for their conscience
to take over. A little guilt can go a long way. Frequently, the
person would start confessing or at least talking. Sometimes they’d
start crying. She used the magic phrase now, “You hoped all this
would go away didn’t you.”

It worked. He stood and ran his fingers
through his hair. “Where do you fit in? Have those two told the
entire world?”

There she had it. A secret he didn’t want
told meant blackmail. “Not the entire world, there’s merely the
three of us, unless you count the police, the state attorney, the
house ethics committee, and the news media.”

He sat again. He folded his arms across his
chest, tilted his head back, and whispered something unintelligible
to the ceiling. When he brought his head back down, she noticed an
eyelid twitching and his hands were now trembling. This was more
serious than she’d suspected. He was as jittery as a trapped bird.
She truly felt sorry for him.

His breath was short, “Miss Reid, please
leave.”

They were putting the shake on him over
something. “Look, I’m the one who can get you out of this. Your
political career is on the line here. You don’t realize who you’re
dealing with.”

“This is crazy. I’m not going to deal with
the three of you. I’m not giving you one cent. I didn’t give that
woman anything either. I told her I‘d deal with Toby only. Forget
Toby, she said, he was no longer a threat. I must now do business
with her. Said she wouldn’t hesitate to ring the bell on me. It was
very upsetting. I didn’t know what to believe. I didn’t go for it.
I told her to leave. And that’s what I’m telling you right
now.”