“It’s probably worth considering, Were you followed when you left the hotel?”
“I don’t think so, but in this weather, who could be sure?”
“So let’s assume they found out where you’re staying. Why not snatch one or both of you before this?”
Ted got up from the concrete step, brushed the snow off his coat. “Hell, I don’t know.”
“Yeah, well, we do know they followed you from California, or tried to. And they’re onto our connection. So either they’ll message you at the hotel, or call you at my house. Does that make sense?”
“As much as anything.” They started down the steps. Moving away from the museum, Ted stopped. “Jesus, Bill, what if they kill her?”
“Cut it out, man.”
Ted covered his face. “Does Kelli know about any of this?”
“None of the specifics.”
“Please call her,” Ted said, touching Bill’s sleeve. “At least leave a message on her cell to let us know if she hears from Mel.”
Bill nodded, made the call, “We’ll find her, man.”
“These people are powerful and not about to let anything stand in their way. They’ll use Mel—you know that.”
* * *
Sitting in front of the Tanas’ fireplace, wondering if he would ever be warm again, Ted rubbed at the center of his chest where a gnawing pain had settled in.
“You don’t look so good.” Bill handed Ted a mug of hot, black coffee. “Why don’t you eat something?”
“I’ll be fine as soon as I see or hear from Mel.” He got up and began to pace, taking sips of his coffee at the same time.
“Ted, sit down!”
“Dammit, don’t tell me what to do. I’ve really gone over the hill when I start taking advice from an ex druggie.”
“Never going to let me forget, always there to rub my nose in.”
“I didn’t draw the dirty pictures,” Ted said, gulping down his coffee. “You did.”
“When you get home you’ll find a fucking ten-thousand dollar check waiting. As far as I’m concerned, you and I are water under the bridge.”
“What makes you think I need you, you son-of-a-bitch?”
They were in each other’s face, fists balled, when the phone rang. For an instant, neither moved. Then they both reached out at once. Bill backed away. “Get it!”
Ted yanked up the receiver
An electronically disguised voice said, “Listen closely, hot shot. I’m only going to say this once.”
“Where’s my wife, you bastard?”
“She’s safe … for now.” The voice had an asthmatic, nasal twang. “The rest is up to you.”
“I’m listening. What do you want?”
“We want you out of D.C. and back in California. Think you can do that. Like pronto?”
“Not without my wife.”
“You need to pay good attention, Yost. You’re booked on tonight’s redeye back to San Francisco. Your tickets will be waiting for you at the United counter at Dulles, Got that?”
“I told you I’m not going anywhere without my wife.”
“Pick up the tickets, stand by the gate, and the first time they call the flight, your little woman will be by your side. Do it! Or you’re both dead. And that’s a promise.”
“Let me talk to her. How do I know she’s still alive?”
“Man, you’re not in the driver’s seat here. You do like I tell you or—do I have to say it again?”
“If she’s not there, I’ll find you no matter what hole you hide in.”
“Shut the fuck up! Pick up the tickets, take your wife’s arm, get on the plane, and stay in California. There’s nothing for you or CORPS in D.C.”
Chapter 23
Senator Angelle Savage paced back and forth, ignoring the spectacular view of the National Gallery of
Art from her office window. She’d been jumping at the least little thing, and was bone weary from having had a bitch of a time sleeping for the past week.
At the moment, W. Wade Wilson, was holding on the line. She’d been expecting, and dreading, his call for more than a month, ever since she’d been seated on the Medicare select subcommittee. The supercilious bastard had to make contact sooner or later because he was the de facto lobbyist for the entire for-profit healthcare industry.
Now, he calls!
Still, a pleasant sense of new-found power made her smile as she picked up the phone.
“Mr. Wilson. What a surprise.”
“Good morning, Senator Savage. I hope you’ll do me the pleasure of having lunch with me today.”
Before she could get her mouth in gear to decline, he jumped in. “Now, now, Senator. This is D.C., not Virginia City or Carson City.” His southern drawl made her skin prickle. “When opportunities present themselves, action is the name of the game. And if you’ll pardon the vernacular, Mrs. Harrington, uh, excuse me, no disrespect intended, Senator Savage, it could be a matter of sink or swim.”
His choice of words made her smile. After all, there wasn’t a hell of a lot of water in her home state of Nevada, and she would have bet her prize collection of silver dollars that he knew it was only outside the office and other political spheres that she used her married name, Harrington. She assumed that his little intended slip was meant as some kind of abstract dig. She wasn’t taking the bait.
“Mr. Wilson—”
“I’ll pick you up at noon, Senator. Got an interesting proposition for you.”
His voice quavered with an undercurrent of excitement. No, more of an urgent you-better-come-or-else kind of energy that damn near fried the skinny telephone wires separating them.
She said yes, but was miffed at herself for not putting him off. Now she would need to have her secretary postpone an important brown-bag meeting about urgent Nevada-related matters that should have been taken care of yesterday.
Why had she agreed?
Was she playing the little girl again, afraid she’d make someone frown, chastise her? She checked her watch, moved to the mirror and finger-combed her short dark hair. As she looked for mascara smudges, she studied the serious brown eyes set amidst an inglorious patchwork of facial lines.
No, at forty-four, she’d given up trying to keep anyone from frowning, least of all men.
She shrugged away extraneous thoughts; she had a limited amount of time to think it through.
What did he want?
The problem was, you simply didn’t just out of hand turn away insiders like W. Wade Wilson III, insiders who controlled big money, had almost unlimited influence, and served as the outlet for streams of power. While she often railed against such outside pressure from her seat on the HHS subcommittee, the fact was that there were times when Wilson and his ilk were needed.
Like when we need money for re-election
She stopped pacing and looked out the window. Being inquisitive had caused her a lot of grief in her life, especially when she was younger.
Well, maybe it was her hormones.
No, her hormones were just fine, thank you.
It was her rage that always did her in, a smoldering rage that never seemed to die. She’d raged against injustice, especially toward women. Raged against powerful men like Wilson, who always seemed to be at the core of every low down thing there was, no matter how large or how small.
She grabbed her purse from her desk drawer and headed for the door, wondering if just being seen in public with the asshole would be considered lying down with the enemy?
* * *
The Washington Five & Dime, contrary to its name, was a plush, extravagant restaurant within sight of the Capitol. It was pure luck that she was wearing her most expensive power suit, with a contrasting red silk blouse. Angelle felt in tip-top form.
From the moment she walked into the circular restaurant with Wilson—there were rumors people liked to go there because the design eliminated an obvious pecking order—they were treated like royalty.
The place had an ov
erpowering masculine aura, all polished wood walls and tables, underlining what a battle it was being a woman in politics. It was obvious that many of her male peers thrived on the restaurant’s atmosphere; they were everywhere, chomping on unlit cigars as if that was part of the required image that had to be maintained.
As they followed the maitre d’ to their table, they both indulged in nods to various colleagues, many of whom didn’t bother to hide their surprise. A heavy, oversize old-fashion glass of bourbon and water was set in front of W. W. She asked for iced tea.
The obsequious waiter was a little much. She’d been in the restaurant before but her recollections didn’t include this much special attention.
“Angelle is kind of an—what shall we say—an unusual name?” Wilson said after a sip of his bourbon.
“You mean for a senator, don’t you?”
“Actually,” he said, chuckling, “it’s sort of like naming a dog Lucky.” He reached across the table to pat her hand. “No offense, Angelle.” He took a long draw on his drink. “Lucky, my foot—sooner or later that pup’s gonna get run over by a car, or at the very least, tangle with a polecat.”
Her name had been an annoyance during most of her life, although she did like the attention she received simply because of it. She’d developed an almost automatic response to those who questioned it.
“My mother loved romance novels; she thought Angelle Savage had a certain glamorous sound to it.” She smiled and tilted her head to one side. “I really don’t think she had anything celestial in mind.”
There was more inane small talk that ended in response to the server arriving with their main course. Once the food was ceremoniously placed in front of them, the server’s assistant refilled her iced tea glass and replaced Wilson’s depleted bourbon with a fresh glass.
“You know they call you the ‘angel of death’ behind your back, don’t you?”
“Sticks and stones, Wade.” She dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “I won’t tell you what they call you, although I’m sure you know.”
She glanced around the room to get a quick idea of how many people were watching them. She particularly enjoyed catching the ones who quickly looked away. “I know you didn’t invite me here just because the food’s good or because you wanted to play word games with my name.”
“Touché, Senator.” He sipped at his drink; his steely gray eyes hardened. “That was quite a little plum that just happened to drop in your lap a while back. Not too many junior senators get to sit on the HHS subcommittee.”
“Wade, I’m having a rough day,” she said. “I really didn’t have the time for this sit-down with you, so consider yourself very effective in coercing me to come.”
“All too true,” he said, smiling as though he had four aces up his sleeve.
“No more small talk, Wade. Let’s get on with it.” The bastard was really starting to get to her. “Brass tacks, that’s what I want or I get up and walk.”
“Careful what you ask for, little lady.”
“Okay, I’ve had enough—”
Wilson studied her for a moment, sipped at his second drink, and said, “Perhaps it’s time you were made aware that I was the one who got you a seat on the HHS subcommittee.” He waited for the response that never came. “Play it that way if you want,” he said, “but be sure you understand that that kind of thing doesn’t come easy, no, sir. I mean, not only are you a junior senator from freakin’ Nevada, you’re a damn woman besides.”
“Whoa!” She looked at him speculatively. “How much flattery do you think a junior senator from Nevada can take at one expensive lunch?”
She stuffed a forkful of crab salad into her mouth, stalled for time, watched his eyes search hers. When she’d finished thoroughly chewing every morsel, she said, “Why on earth would you want me on that committee anyway?”
“Let’s just say, I have my reasons, Angelle.”
“If I had known—”
“You’d have turned it down?” He laughed aloud. “I don’t think so.”
“I’m not for sale, Wade. And if I were, I’d just as soon sell my soul to the devil. I’m at a loss as to what awe-inspiring feats you thought I could, or would, perform for you.”
“We do have common goals.”
“We? Why, you almost sound like a liberal, Mr. Wilson.”
He reached for his knife and fork, cut off a huge piece of filet mignon, shoved it roughly into his mouth, then chewed it delicately. When he finally swallowed, he gave her an amused smile but the humor never reached his eyes.
“Why is it liberals always think they corner the market when it comes to social welfare?”
“We think that way because it’s true,” she said.
“An obvious misconception, Senator. I never want anything less than the very best for my fellow citizens, every one of them.”
“Rich Americans, Wade. That’s the difference between the lobby you represent and us so-called liberals.”
“Be that as it may, Senator, it’s pay-back time.”
She slowly shook her head and hated herself for feeling so sanctimonious. “Wade, you and I could sit here and have lunch together every day, call each other by our first names, and it’s still not going to make us working partners, let alone friends.” She ate more of her salad and waited for his response.
Instead, he gave her a pleasant look and continued to consume his steak and side of crisp, cooked vegetables. Angelle decided not to push it, did her best to slowly pick out all the crab morsels from the stack of romaine, arugula, and red lettuce. When they both were about finished, she said, “You know, Wade, you probably could get me a seat on almost any committee. Hell, maybe even get me a cabinet appointment. But you know what?”
Chin down, eyes on his plate, he looked up at her without raising his head.
“It wouldn’t change a thing. I mean, it should be crystal clear, even to you, that I’m never going to jump into bed with your insurance industry buddies.” She reached across the table and patted his hand. “No offense intended.”
He pushed his plate off to the side and set the drink in front of him. “When you get to be my age, Senator, you realize, never is just a long time. Understand, Angelle, I really don’t want to be a ruffian with you. I really don’t. But if you’re going to play in the sandbox with the big boys, you’re going to have to show a little more give-and-take.”
“Is there a point to any of this?”
“Always a point, Angelle. Always a point.” He pulled a notebook from his inside jacket pocket, thumbed carefully through the pages. “Does the name Joanne Paige mean anything to you?”
Her breath caught. She pulled her linen napkin from her lap and dabbed delicately at her mouth, her heart beating wildly. “I can’t say that I recall meeting anyone by that name. No. I really don’t think so.”
He leaned forward, smiled, and said, “Allow me to refresh your memory.”
* * *
Wilson slipped off his suit jacket, flicked a couple of gray hairs from one shoulder, and hung it in his office closet. He was very pleased with himself, pleased with the way he’d handled the Savage woman. Nice touch, taking her to the Washington Five & Dime where she wouldn’t dare over-emote. He’d had more than his share of dealing with women in his sixty years and he’d found the one thing they were good at was crying, carrying on, and, in general, making men feel stupid, useless, and embarrassed.
He shook his head. Uppity women were particularly distasteful; it tickled him that he’d taken the supposedly tough senator down a notch or two.
In fact, if he was any judge of character—and if he was anything, he was that—he’d have to say he’d left behind one frightened female junior senator from Nevada.
He eased into his desk chair and reached for a new disposable cell. After punching in the numbers, he waited, tapping out the rhythm of “Dixie” on his desktop.
“Garrett. How’re you doing? That California sunshine still holding up?”
“Cau
ght me during a Bioethics Committee break,” Rudge said, his voice tight with tension.
“Sorry, want me to call back later?” Wilson said, knowing Rudge would never put him off.
“No, no. It’s okay. Actually, if all goes well, this should be our final session.”
“Glad to hear that, Garr. I mean, this is the big one, right, the one where your people do the right thing?”
“That’s the plan,” Rudge said.
Wilson paused, evaluated the crisp, business-like response he’d come to recognize as Garrett Rudge’s no-nonsense approach. The man was not only good at his job, but had been the foundation of the Desisto Project, even though he was a real pain in the ass if any little thing wasn’t right on target. A little too soft for the game of hardball Wade played.
“Listen, Garr, I’ve got to go,” he said in a mellower tone. “Just checking in, wanted to let you know everything’s on schedule at our end. You’re bringing Hygea along as we knew you would.” He paused for a moment. “Good man.”
When he hung up and placed the telephone back in the desk drawer, his thoughts were interrupted by the buzz of the intercom.
“Yes, Calli?”
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but Leonard is here.”
“Send him in, would ya?”
He loosened his tie and slipped it over his head as the door opened. A man with a military brush cut entered and set a briefcase on the end table next to a large leather sofa.
“How are you, Lennie?” Wilson watched the barber’s eyebrows rise in consternation. “Sorry, Leonard.” He’d used the diminutive intentionally.
“It’s all right, sir.” They both knew it wasn’t; just a ritual to be played out every time the barber came to trim Wilson’s hair.
Leonard walked over to the extensive wet bar and came back with one of the bar stools.
“How have you been, sir?” the barber asked as W. W. took his seat. They continued their usual banter as he was draped.
“Helluva day. Helluva good day!” He listened to the crisp sounds of the clicking scissors and marveled again how Leonard simply running a comb through his hair relaxed him immediately.
“You know, Leonard, sometimes I wish people would surprise me more often. Kind of boring that they’re so predictable.”
The Killing Vote Page 13