Access to Power

by Robert Ellis

  He handed Tracy five copies of the new key. As Tracy passed them out, Frank took his and noticed the small, timid man staring up at him.

  “Mind if I keep the old one?” the locksmith asked.

  Frank shrugged. “The old what?”

  The locksmith brought his hand forward, displaying the lock. “There’s nothing wrong with it. Look. Not even a scratch.”

  Frank nodded, wondering why the sight of the lock seemed so odd. Then he looked outside at the detectives in the parking lot and headed for the door.

  Chapter 18

  Frank legged it across the lot and looked inside the car. Randolph sat behind the wheel with Grimes beside him. Lunch was spread out on the seat and dash.

  “You’re scaring the shit out of my staff,” Frank said. “What are you guys doing here?”

  Randolph gave him a look. “This is the first chance we’ve had to eat. We’ve been at it all night. Relax, Frank. We were just on our way in.”

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Randolph nodded at the backseat with a tuna sandwich in his hand. Frank hesitated a moment, but climbed in. As Grimes turned and leaned against the door to face him, Randolph began paging through a file until he found what he was looking for.

  “We IDd the kid,” Randolph said, taking a last bite of his sandwich. “Sonny Stockwell. He had a record. He got picked up for burglary six months ago with a buddy of his.”

  The detective passed an 8x10 photo over the seat. Frank eyed it carefully. It was a mug shot of the boy that he’d seen behind the building just twelve hours ago. Woody’s murderer, staring back at him with attitude.

  “He looks young. How old was he?”

  “Eighteen,” Grimes said. “On his way to twenty to life.”

  Frank ignored him and turned back to Randolph. “What about his friend?”

  “Alan Ingrams? He works at a Burger King. His boss says he was still punched in around the time Woody got shot.”

  Frank passed the photo back, unable to hide his concern. Randolph must have known what was on his mind.

  “Stop thinking it, Frank. The kid got Woody and Woody got the kid. It’s over. There’s no reason for anyone to come back.”

  Randolph lit a cigarette and reached for his Coke. Frank sat back in the seat, noticing that he still held the key to the new lock in his hand.

  “How do you think Stockwell got in?” he asked.

  Randolph’s eyes flickered. Grimes’s stupid grin was back.

  “It’s an office,” Grimes said. “He probably used the front door.”

  “The door’s locked every night at six.”

  “Maybe someone forgot,” Grimes shot back.

  Frank dug inside his pocket for his key ring. This was Washington. No one forgot.

  “We locked up early last night,” he said. “I had an edit and so did Linda. Then the president’s fund-raiser, Grimes.”

  “He could’ve picked it.”

  “I thought nothing was found on the body.”

  Grimes curled his lip and then laughed. “We’ve got a wise guy here. This is why they call you guys spin doctors, right? Two plus two equals three or five depending on who you’re trying to screw?”

  Frank opened the door and got out. He’d had enough of Grimes.

  Randolph started the car, flashing a tired smile at him. “There a lot of ways he could’ve gotten in, Frank. It’s been a long night and this thing’s open and shut. Do us all a favor. Go back inside and leave it alone.”

  Chapter 19

  Ozzie Olson followed the guard down the hall to the judge’s chambers and knew that he had to make this quick. It would be difficult. He had a history with Judge Taylor. At one time, before Olson was destroyed and eaten up by the darkness, they had been friends.

  The guard swung the door open, peeked inside, then nodded at Olson that it was okay to go in. Olson lumbered through the doorway and stopped, the judge studying him carefully from his desk. Judge Taylor had been at it for thirty years and was known for the poker face he spawned during trial. Today, his grizzled face clearly betrayed what he was thinking.

  Olson already knew how bad he looked. Even worse from spending a drunken night in jail. The dark circles beneath his eyes were digging into his cheeks and had turned black. His skin had lost its color. He hadn’t seen the judge for several years. Olson had begun to gray since then and had gained considerable weight. Up seventy pounds from two-fifty. At only six feet one, Olson didn’t need to be reminded that he wasn’t carrying it well.

  The guard left the room, closing the door behind him.

  “Have a seat, Ozzie,” the judge said in an even voice.

  Olson sat down before the judge’s desk, watching the man lean back in his chair and review his file. A lecture was coming. Maybe a second chance.

  Judge Taylor began reading the charges aloud. “Driving while under the influence. Resisting arrest. Looks like shit.” The judge sat up, eyeing him again. “Someone could have been killed, Ozzie. What’s happened to you?”

  Olson’s eyes stirred, the judge waiting for some kind of response. He wouldn’t give him one. The question was too stupid. The answer too fucking obvious. He’d been ruined. Humiliated. Dragged through the coals by Frank Miles.

  “I brought you into my chambers as a favor,” the judge said. “The press is out there waiting to take another shot at you. I wanted to spare you the embarrassment. So you ran for the Senate and lost. It’s been two years. Who was that guy who screwed you? Frank Miles. I remember now. You used to be a good lawyer. A smart attorney. You need to get over it, Ozzie. You need to put this behind you.”

  Olson glanced at the wall and spotted a photograph of the judge standing with Senator Helen Pryor, his opponent in the election. They wore big smiles and it looked like their teeth had been capped. Averting his eyes, Olson hoped the judge hadn’t noticed that he’d seen it. He had a headache chipping away at the right side of his head. He didn’t want the man’s sympathy. Not now. Not ever. And he’d worked in the building enough during his former life to know where the exits were located so that he might avoid the press.

  “I appreciate the favor, Your Honor. But I filed my paperwork two hours ago. I’d like to go home now.”

  Judge Taylor dropped the file and gave him a long look. “Bitterness isn’t the answer, Ozzie. You need counseling. Lots of it, I’m afraid.”

  Olson wanted to say “fuck you,” but didn’t. Instead, he took the easy route. He agreed to counseling, both psychological and religious. He had the shakes and needed whisky. He would have agreed to anything just to get out. And he did, five minutes after Judge Taylor signed his release. Olson walked through a rear exit, up an alley and grabbed a cab when he hit the street.

  Chapter 20

  There was a new wrinkle in the Mel Merdock/Lou Kay race for the Senate that Frank hadn’t anticipated. A special interest group he had never heard of was entering the contest without an invitation. Apparently they had enough money to produce ads and get them on TV.

  Frank sat in the media room, watching a copy of the spot with Tracy.

  An actress playing a girlish housewife stood before the stove making dinner in a dress and jewelry. Her husband, another actor, sat at the kitchen table ignoring her and their infant child while reading a newspaper. When Frank noticed the crucifix on the wall behind them, the picture became complete. It was a distorted view of the past, a horrific view of the way things were and should be.

  “I was talking to Jane today,” the wife was saying, “and I forgot why we’re not voting for Lou Kay.”

  The husband lowered his paper and looked at his wife as if she were his misguided daughter. “We’re not voting for Lou Kay because he’s bad, honey.”

  “But why is he bad?”

  The husband smiled. “Lou Kay doesn’t share our values.”

  “He doesn’t share our values,” she repeated.

  “You tell Jane that’s all she needs to know. I’ll talk to Dick on Sunday.”r />
  As the wife nodded, good girl that she is and was, the voice-over kicked in and church bells rang. “Paid for by the Committee for the Restoration of American Values and Ethics,” the announcer said.

  Linda burst into the room laughing. “What was that?”

  Frank hit the remote and smiled at her, wondering if the ad would change the dynamics of the race. The spot was clearly against their opponent, Lou Kay. But it was embarrassing, and too poorly made to give his client Mel Merdock any lift. If the ad was played enough to be seen, some people would laugh, but others might become angry. The spot could potentially backfire, blowing up in his client’s face. Under the First Amendment, independent expenditures had the right to say anything they wanted to say. But Frank couldn’t help them deliver a professional product. He couldn’t even contact them without breaking the law.

  “It’s running on two stations,” Frank said, handing the tape to Tracy like it might be soiled.

  “Who are they?” Linda asked.

  Tracy checked her notepad and shrugged. “The Committee for the Restoration of American Values and Ethics.”

  “Another special interest group,” Frank said. “You ever hear of them?”

  Linda shook her head. “What’s their special interest?”

  “Same as ours,” Frank said, thinking it over. “Only they don’t know what they’re doing.”

  The phone rang and Tracy picked it up, rolling her eyes. Reporters were beginning to check in, asking questions about Woody’s murder. They wanted an interview with Frank.

  Frank refused the call and told Tracy to put the service on for the rest of the day. Then he chased her and the interns off to a restaurant with the company credit card. When they left, he checked in on Linda. She was sitting before her computer struggling to write a spot she would have blown through in ten minutes if this had been any other day. Her glow had faded, she looked exhausted, and it didn’t take much to convince her to go home early as well.

  After he heard the door close, Frank switched off the overhead lights and poured a cup of coffee. He cupped the mug, letting it warm his hands as he moved to the window. He could see Linda getting into her black Explorer and watched as she drove off, probably to be with Jason Hardly. It would be a night of holding each other, comforting each other, then who knows what, followed by deep sleep.

  Frank stepped into his office, trying not to think about it as he sat down at his desk and took in the silence. He noticed a copy of the latest Merdock poll and pushed it aside. Tracy must have left it for him. Frank didn’t need to read it because he already knew the results. Lou Kay was winning. His spots were made by Stewart Brown. They weren’t laughable. And they weren’t a distraction. Brown’s ads for Lou Kay were slick and tough, the message so concise, no one could possibly miss it.

  “Three more weeks,” he said aloud.

  Somehow he had to get through the next three weeks before he could let go.

  He took a sip of coffee and leaned over in the chair. The blood stain remained on the carpet just beside his feet and he studied it. The maintenance people had worked all morning and gotten nowhere. Frank guessed that the stain would be there as a reminder of his friend until the day he replaced the carpet.

  And so would that nagging feeling that something was wrong.

  He cracked the window open and looked outside at the Capitol dome looming in the afternoon sky. He couldn’t place the feeling, couldn’t ground it in thought. But it was there, without shape or body, just below the surface.

  Something was wrong.

  Chapter 21

  By seven-thirty he was in his car, making the short drive over to the Lincoln Memorial. It was a warm night for mid-October, the air very still. A perfect evening for tourists. Frank had always enjoyed trying to pick out the tourists, which was difficult here because the sight of Lincoln keeping watch over the city and nation seemed to have an impact on everyone, even him, no matter how many times he looked at it.

  He found Mario waiting for him on a bench by the Reflecting Pool. Frank sat down, his eyes on the people taking pictures of themselves before the memorial.

  “I need something on Lou Kay,” he said. “They’re killing us.”

  “I thought Merdock’s money had the thing locked.”

  “Stewart Brown’s killing us. I need something on Lou Kay and I need it now. And while you’re at it, I want background on the Committee for the Restoration of American Values and Ethics. They’re on our side, but their spots eat shit like they’re from Mars.”

  Mario smiled as Frank settled. He was a small, thin man in his early forties and wore a blue-gray herringbone sport jacket along with his mustache and glasses. He had been doing Frank’s negative research for the last five election cycles and was extremely thorough, the best in the business. Over the years, they had become friends.

  “Lou Kay gets his car washed every Saturday,” Mario said. “He’s been going to the same carwash for the last ten years.”

  “So what?”

  “The carwash hires illegals. Indirectly, Lou Kay’s hired illegals for the last ten years.”

  “This isn’t a House seat, Mario. I need better than that. Something real, or almost real.”

  Mario paused a moment, then asked, “Why are we meeting here? Why not at the office like always?”

  Frank lit a cigarette without answering.

  “Are you okay, Frank?”

  “The day Woody died,” he said in a quieter voice. “We argued, Mario. I threw him out of my office.”

  “Woody was losing a lot of races. I did his research. Every time we met he was a wreck.”

  “His client files aren’t where they’re supposed to be. His office isn’t right.”

  “Washington’s the stickup capital of the world, Frank. What happened to Woody goes on every day. Maybe you’re just feeling guilty. About the way things were left, I mean.”

  “Maybe.”

  Frank waited for a couple to pass with their two young children. He guessed that they were on vacation, like so many other families who visit Washington to see the buildings, museums, maybe even take in an afternoon at the Capitol, watching their government in action. They seemed like a nice family. They looked innocent, and he hoped that they wouldn’t get mugged. When they were out of earshot, Frank turned back to Mario and lowered his voice.

  “The cops can’t even explain how the kid who shot Woody got into the fucking office. Something’s not right.”

  “Jesus, Frank.”

  He saw Mario’s concern, but ignored it. Frank had spent the afternoon trying to satisfy his doubts, but couldn’t. He’d checked Woody’s filing cabinet again and sliced his finger open as the drawer swayed shut. He’d gone downstairs and examined the front door. The wood was intact, the paint not even scratched. Every window in the building was secure. Frank realized that his doubts were nothing more than loose ends. Why Woody’s current files were buried in the back of a drawer, or how Sonny Stockwell managed to get into a locked office without tools didn’t mean that the kid hadn’t murdered Woody. What bothered Frank was that both questions defied explanation. Even more troubling, Randolph and Grimes were seasoned detectives and didn’t seem concerned. In a political campaign, loose ends had a way of unraveling until they blew something a part. Usually a candidate’s life, along with their hopes and dreams.

  Mario reached inside his jacket for a pen. “Before you go crazy with this, let me check these cops out. What are their names?”

  Frank got rid of his cigarette, knowing that he had one more stop to make before he could go home. “Max Randolph and Ted Grimes,” he said.

  * * *

  It was a Baptist church set in a neighborhood where you kept your guard up. Poverty held onto the people who lived here with both fists and wouldn’t let go.

  Frank could hear the choir practicing as he walked up the steps, cracked open the door and peeked inside. They were standing before the music director, trying to concentrate on their sheet music as they
spotted him entering.

  Frank found the pastor waiting for him in the last pew. He was a gentle giant of sorts; a big man with a wise face whose firm presence remained formidable despite his age. He wore expensive suits, the rings on both hands standing out against his dark complexion the way gold should. Reverend Doc Neilmarker had helped Frank and Woody with voter turnout for years. He controlled the poorest sections of the city and had a political reach that carried into Virginia and Maryland, even North Carolina. If anyone could help him, Frank knew that it would be Neilmarker.

  He made his way down the aisle. Neilmarker rose, grabbing his hand and shaking it firmly.

  “Frank Miles,” he said with a smile that betrayed his sadness. “It’s been awhile. Wish it could be under happier circumstances. How can I help?”

  Frank met his eyes. “The kid had a friend, Doc. Alan Ingrams. I need to talk to him.”

  Neilmarker nodded, thinking it over as he sat down and invited Frank to join him. “Woody was a good man,” he said.

  Chapter 22

  Frank made a right on New Hampshire Avenue and stopped at a diner off Dupont Circle. He ordered the house special, shepherd’s pie. When the plate arrived at half past ten, it looked like slop and had no real taste other than salt. But anything would have done, given the circumstances. He had been up for over forty hours, the length of most people’s entire work week. Getting food in his stomach was a question of mass, a matter of physics rather than chemistry or art.

  When he finished, he paid the bill and walked up the block to a convenience store on the corner. He needed an emergency carton of cigarettes to get through all this, at least that’s what he kept telling himself. But when he put the carton down on the counter, the man at the register wearing a beard and turban asked to see his identification. Frank was forty and needed sleep. There were mirrors hanging from the ceiling so that the cashier could spot shoplifters. Judging from his own reflection, Frank looked like he had been tied to the back of a car and dragged through ten miles of stop-and-go traffic. But he laughed it off, showing the man his driver’s license, and walking out of the store with what they were calling drugs these days and enough matches to light every one of them.