Albertson pointed and they strolled north. The aroma arising from a hot-dog cart on the corner was supremely tempting, but Loving supposed this wasn’t the time for chow.
“You’re trying to figure out who the girl is, right? The one who was killed at the Roush press conference,” Albertson said.
“As a starting point.”
“To what? Figuring out who killed her? Had to be Roush or his little boyfriend.”
“Killin’ her at their own home? When about a million people were visiting?”
“I’ll admit, that part is troublesome. Still, I think we could make it stick if we came up with a little proof.”
“Hard to prove who did the killin’ when you don’t know who the victim was. How can you prove motive?”
“Yeah. That’s also a sticking point.” Albertson finished his banana and, to Loving’s surprise, ordered a hot dog. Well, when in Rome. Loving got his loaded with onions and sauerkraut. “So—had any luck?”
“I’ll tell if you’ll tell.”
Albertson inhaled half his dog. “What do you want to know?”
“Why’s it so hard to figure out who the woman is? Doesn’t she have fingerprints?”
“Yeah, but they don’t match any prints on record. Something weird about them. My forensics boys think they may have been tampered with.”
“What about the face? Gotta be someone who recognizes her.”
“No one has come forward, discounting the cranks.” He devoured the rest of the dog in a single bite. Loving was no shrink, but this guy had to have a major oral fixation. “I’m surprised. The whole thing is weird, though.”
“How d’ya mean?”
“What was she doing at that press conference? Why doesn’t anyone know her? Why would anyone kill her there when, as you say, there were about a million people roaming about?”
“Maybe it wasn’t planned.”
“That would be my guess, too. Crime of passion, fit of anger, whatever. Were you there?”
Loving shook his head. Private investigators didn’t get invited to important political functions.
“Well, the million or so people in attendance present another problem. Too many suspects. Even the possibility that it was someone who wasn’t actually invited to the press conference. After all, the victim wasn’t invited. But there she was.”
Loving frowned. He had hoped this conversation would be useful. If anything, it was only making the case more complicated.
“But enough about me,” Albertson said, wiping his mouth. “I gave, now you follow suit. Who the hell was trying to kill you?”
“I wish I knew.”
“But you said they were professionals?”
Loving nodded. “At least one of them was. I think the other guy was some sort of keeper. He wasn’t as good; in fact, if anythin’, I think he was crampin’ the pro’s style. I probably wouldn’t have gotten away if he hadn’t had that clown weighin’ him down. I mean, come on. A machine gun in a shoppin’ mall? That’s like somethin’ out of one of them Terminator movies. No pro would ever do that.”
“Agreed. Where did they go after you crashed your buggy?”
“Don’t know. I mean, the pro probably knew how to roll with the car and land on his feet. That wasn’t so much of a shock. But the mall security men said the other guy was gone before they could even get to the scene, and I left him hurtin’ pretty bad. I think they must’ve had backup.”
“Cleaners?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
“Okay. Give me more.”
“I don’t have more to give.”
“Try. I got people breathing down my throat, expecting me to explain three wounded people and over a million dollars in property damage. What were they after?”
“Well, judgin’ from appearances, me.”
“Why?”
“Don’t know.”
“You were meeting someone?”
“Right. I’ve been trollin’ all the low-life hangouts in the vicinity, crook bars and pool halls and stuff. Finally found a guy who said he knew a guy who knew a girl…that sort of thing.” Loving made a strategic decision to delete the one identifying feature that helped him close in on the person he wanted—the red Ford SUV Ben had seen parked at the rear of Thaddeus Roush’s garden. “She was a workin’ girl who supposedly knew a woman who knew the woman who was murdered. Got the impression the victim has some kind of criminal past, so I’m surprised you didn’t get a match on her prints. Anyway, before this lady of the evening could tell me anythin’, those coldhearted assassins riddled her with bullets. Just because she was in the way.” Loving swallowed. “Looked like she wasn’t more than eighteen. Maybe younger.”
Albertson was silent for a moment. “Well, I have to assume you were getting too close to something someone didn’t want you to know.”
“Like the person who’s really behind the murder?”
“Maybe. Or someone who sent the victim to the press conference to be killed. Or someone who doesn’t want you to know who she is for some other reason. Point is—it’s big. Whoever was behind this has some serious money and serious crime connections. Sufficient to bring in a very serious hit man. And a keeper.”
“Yeah. That’s a problem.”
Albertson raised a eyebrow. “Getting scared?”
“Nah,” Loving bluffed. “Gettin’ curious. And a little depressed. If there’s major crime figures in this—maybe even the mob—it’s gonna be a tough nut to crack. Those boys are very good at keepin’ their secrets.” He stopped walking. “So what are we doin’ here, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t follow you.”
“Why are we out here soakin’ up the sunshine instead of inhalin’ the asbestos fumes in your office?”
Albertson smiled slightly. “Don’t you like to get out on occasion? Feel the rays of the sun warming your face?”
“Cut the crap. There was somethin’ you wanted to tell me in private. So spill already.”
Albertson rummaged through his pockets, presumably looking for something to put in his mouth. “I propose a deal.”
“And that would be?”
“We share information. We’re both working the same case, more or less. You learn something, you tell me about it. I learn something, I do likewise. Sound like a good deal?”
“Well,” Loving said cheerfully, “it sounds like a good deal for you. Since I appear to be on the trail of somethin’ big. And you got nada.”
“Look, Loving, I’ve cut you breaks in the past—”
“Never said otherwise.”
“And I got you that provisional P.I. license so you could work while your boss is playing senator.”
“Most kind of ya.”
Albertson’s eyes lowered. “But I could revoke it just as easily as I got it.”
“I qualified for that license. I’m over twenty-one, got no felony convictions. I passed the psych evaluation and I completed my twenty-one hours of trainin’ to get certified by the Oklahoma Council on Law Enforcement Education.”
“All of which might get you somewhere back home. But Dorothy—you’re not in Kansas anymore.”
“Oklahoma.”
“Same difference.”
Loving turned to face him squarely. His shoulders were about twice as broad as Albertson’s, so he made a particularly effective roadblock. “Now you’re playin’ dirty pool. I don’t take kindly to bein’ pushed around.”
Albertson stood his ground. “I don’t much care what you like. I got people breathin’ down my neck for a breakthrough in this case. So if you get one, I expect to hear about it. Understood?”
“And what do I get in return?”
“You get to keep your license.”
“Not good enough.”
Albertson frowned. “We’re bound to figure out who the victim was eventually. If we do, you’ll be the first one I tell. And if you get a name first, I’ll let you run it through the FBI databases. You’ll get more info in ten minutes online than you
could get from a month of pounding the pavement.”
Loving considered. That was at least marginally tempting.
“And I won’t press charges.”
“Huh? For what?”
“Destruction of private and public property. Assault with a deadly weapon. Apparently you attacked two men and ran over one of them with your automobile.”
“They were tryin’ to kill me!”
“That’s your story. A lot of the witnesses thought you were the bad guy. Thought you were on the lam from the police.”
“That’s crazy.”
“Crazy enough to keep you in jail for a very long time awaiting trial. The D.C. courts are so overcrowded these days.”
“I don’t believe you’d do that.”
“But can you be sure?”
“You’ve always seemed like a kinda sorta honest person. So far.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment.”
“Suit yourself.”
“But the threat still stands.”
“All right, already. We’ll share.” Loving poked him with a finger. “But don’t forget. This is supposed to be a two-way street.”
“I won’t,” Albertson said.
“Good. You’ve got my cell number.”
They returned to the police station, having circled the entire block.
“Enjoyed our little chat,” Loving said.
“Likewise, I’m sure. Stay in touch.”
Loving watched as Albertson trotted up the stairs. Albertson was desperate, plain and simple. Didn’t know what was going on, didn’t have a clue how to proceed, so he was grasping at straws. Even the particularly desperate straw of aligning himself with a private investigator. The problem was, Loving really didn’t know what to do next. His only lead was lying in the morgue. The pond scum who had put him on to her had disappeared. He had nothing, except a queasy feeling formed by the knowledge that someone had wanted him dead—and probably still did.
Well, he’d figure something out, right? Back to pounding the streets. He turned and—
The man was standing so close behind Loving that he’d bumped into him before he could stop himself. He took a step back to gain a clearer view.
The man in front of him raised his sunglasses slightly as a sort of salute. His right hand was in the pocket of his overcoat. There was a bulge in the pocket that resembled the barrel of a gun. “Hello again.”
It was Leon.
13
Common Beltway wisdom dictated that in reality, it was not senators, congressmen, or Presidents that controlled Washington—it was lobbyists. Richard Trevor was thinking about having that etched into a paperweight.
“Mr. Trevor,” said his young-and-gorgeous-but-much-too-eager-to-please new assistant, Melody McClain. “Do you want to see my report?”
“Behind me, Melody. At least three steps behind me.”
Trevor didn’t mean to be rude—well, in truth, he supposed he did—but he had to get his point across. He had an image to protect. People saw him as a maverick, a Washington outsider, even when he was very much inside the city limits, jogging his third lap around the Reflecting Pool at the foot of the Washington Monument in the Main Mall. It was a beautiful day; he could smell the cherry blossoms. In truth, he hated jogging, thought it was as boring as anything on earth, except possibly golf. But he liked to maintain a vigorous, youthful image. It was important for the leader of the Christian Congregation, one of the most powerful lobbies in the country, one that helped put the last three Presidents in office, to maintain the proper image. So he jogged. His staff could accompany him, but they had to maintain a respectful distance—which was exactly far enough to ensure that they wouldn’t appear in any photos the stalkerazzi might be snapping.
Melody continued huffing several steps behind him. She was unaccustomed to jogging. Especially with a clipboard in both hands. “Sir, I think the report will tell you everything you need to know about Thaddeus Roush.”
“I already know everything I need to know about Thaddeus Roush,” he replied. “The man is a homosexual.” He pronounced the word with two long “o’s” and a strong accent on the first three syllables. “He is not a suitable candidate for the highest court in the land.”
“He does have a good record. Sound decisions, persuasive reasoning. And consistently conservative.”
“Doesn’t matter. We cannot place our trust in a man who would lie down with another man.” Of course, he quietly reminded himself, many Old Testament figures who for sometimes difficult-to-comprehend reasons were the chosen children of God did it. But never mind that. “Sodomy is a plague upon our great country. It must be eradicated.”
“Sir, homosexuality has existed since the dawn of time. I don’t think it can be eradicated. Only persecuted.”
“Melody,” he said, without breaking his stride, “are you disagreeing with me?”
“Of course not, sir. Just…playing devil’s advocate. Previewing what your opponents will say.”
“I already know what my opponents will say, the heathen and the communists and the godless lesbian feminists and their ilk. Please do not talk to me in that manner again.”
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I just—”
“That is exactly the kind of soft liberal thinking that has brought our nation to the low place where it is today. Immorality destroyed the Roman Empire, you know.”
“Yes, sir. I’m so sorry, sir.”
Was he perhaps a trifle oversensitive on this subject? Yes, he would be willing to admit that he was. Particularly since he had so often been accused of being homosexual when he was growing up. There was no truth to it—none whatsoever! But the accusation kept rearing its ugly head, time after time. It was because of the way he looked, his eternal baby face. Maybe the somewhat high pitch of his voice. He had tried growing a beard—didn’t help. It came in wispy and unpersuasive. He tried lowering his voice, but it never sounded natural. Like Jim Nabors when he sang. Fake. Better to be himself and let the world judge him by his actions, not his God-given appearance.
He rounded the corner of the pool and started toward the Lincoln Memorial. There was a time when he would have been flattered by the attention of a lovely woman such as Melody, someone who had shown up at his office professing her devotion to the cause of Christian politics, someone who had made it all too clear that she would do anything—and she did mean anything—for him. Not bad for a kid who used to be a supply youth minister in one of the poorest churches in Miami. But this was a temptation he could resist, that he must resist. It was important that he remain free of entanglements. That was why he had never married. His work—the holy task of reforming the nation and returning it to its fundamentalist Christian roots—took precedence over everything else.
“Will we be seeing Judge Haskins today, Melody?”
“No, sir. He had a conflict.”
“Did he, now?”
“Ever since that fire at the Hilton, he’s been red hot. No joke intended, sir.”
“So he’s too busy to see me? Is that what you’re telling me, Melody?”
She hesitated. “He says he never intended to draw attention to himself. He thought it would be unwise to be seen in public.”
“You mean—seen with me in public.”
“Well, yes. I’m sure it’s nothing personal, sir. He probably just felt that being seen with the leader of one of the top lobbies in the country could make it appear as if he were campaigning. As if he had a political agenda.”
As if there was someone in this town who did not. “Don’t be naïve. He’s balancing the damage that could result from being seen with a lobbyist against the damage that could result from offending a lobbyist. And he has evaluated the problem incorrectly. Lobbyists—”
“—run this town. Yes sir, I know.”
Was she being sharp, or just stupid? “There are over fifteen thousand lobbyists in this city, Melody. Think of it. More than all the senators and representatives and their staffs combined. Our influence i
s enormous.”
“That’s the Golden Rule, sir. He who has the gold makes the rule.”
He decided to ignore the blasphemy of her lame little joke. This time. “Money is important. Especially with the new campaign reform laws, they’re all sucking at whatever special-interest teat they can find, issues be damned. No Republican appointment in the last ten years has been made without my approval, and that includes congressional committee appointments. I buried Harriet Miers and I can bury this Roush chump even easier. The Senate has rejected twelve nominees over the years and sixteen have withdrawn under pressure—and someone like me has been behind every one of those outcomes. Politicians who want to go somewhere play ball with me. Those that don’t find every door slammed in their faces.”
“Money certainly will buy influence, sir.”
“It’s not money, at least not predominantly. What gives lobbyists our real power is information. We constantly gather information. I know more about Senator Keyes’s constituency, what they believe and what they like, than he does. Small wonder we’ve managed to maintain such a positive relationship. There are simply too many bills, too many issues. No politician can keep up with it all, be the expert on everything. So when some new issue arises and they suddenly need to do ten minutes on Larry King on a subject they know nothing about, they call the lobbyists. They can’t admit to ignorance—that’s simply not done. If they get caught with their pants down, they look like fools. More than one political career has been ended by a single bad interview or press conference. So we help them out. That’s how Washington works, Melody. We inflate their egos. And they give us everything we want.”
Trevor reached the end of his run. Another assistant was waiting with a towel and a chilled bottle of Gatorade. “Tell Judge Haskins I will see him in my office this afternoon at two.”
“He told me he has a—”
“Tell him to cancel it.” Trevor smiled. The blood slowly faded from his cheeks as he wiped the sweat from his brow. “Regardless of whether he wants to be on the Supreme Court, I’ll bet he won’t turn it down if it’s offered.” He laughed and tossed her the dripping towel. “If he’s the right man for the job, I’ll get him marching in step.”
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