by S L Shelton
He walked past her without even a sideways glance, and she swore under her breath, disappointed she hadn’t caught his eye.
She checked her appearance in the mirror and flipped her golden hair over her shoulder before waving at the bartender. “Check,” she said loudly enough to turn a few heads in her direction. A woman’s voice seemed out of place there in the paneled halls of private maledom.
Her eyes flicked to the mirror again, hoping Sperling had likewise noticed and looked her way. Nope.
“Damn,” she muttered.
She began to worry he wouldn’t notice at all. She only had a small window of opportunity to draw him in before he disappeared through the tall, heavy oaken doors for the club-proper—no woman’s land.
It occurred to her then. Perhaps he had so many women on Capitol Hill throwing themselves at him on any given day that a constant diet of female attention had left him numb to subtle signals. She’d have to up her game.
Another clean-cut Yale or Harvard man approached the bar and gave her a sideways glance. She recognized him immediately as Congressman Robert Trembly. Graying at the temples and expensively dressed, he had more the look of billionaire playboy than public servant. The practiced smile and crinkling at the corner of his eyes when he turned toward her was a dead giveaway—he was going to hit on her. Shit!
She glanced down at his tie pin—Yale—then shot him an awkward grin before busying herself with a search of her purse hanging on the back of her stool.
“Would you mind if I stand here next to you for a while?”
She wasn’t interested in Trembly. She wanted Mr. Blue Eyes. “You can have my seat if you like. I’m about to leave.”
“Ah,” he muttered. “Too bad.”
Yes. Tragic, she thought.
A navy blue suit-clad arm split the space between her and Trembly, and her eyes flashed to the mirror. It was her blue-eyed congressman. She struggled to hide her victory smile as she continued to fish through her purse.
“Glenfiddich, neat,” Sperling said, garnering a nod and smile from the bartender.
“Hello, Colton,” Trembly said.
Mr. Blue Eyes shot him a reflexive sneer, replaced with a thin smile so quickly that one had to wonder if the sneer ever occurred. “Hey, Bob,” Sperling said, grinning as if he hadn’t seen him standing there. “How are you?”
Trembly lowered his head and shook it in mock disgust. “Worried about the lack of support from leadership on the surveillance bill.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” Sperling said, looking at the mirror and momentarily locking eyes with her. “But there are far too many holes in the reporting to give it a green light...we’re going to need more disclosure from the agencies.”
She manufactured a girlish blush and a shy turn of the head. She knew she had him.
“Look, Colton, I know there are concerns about—”
“We shouldn’t be talking shop here,” Sperling said and turned to the bartender when he arrived with his scotch. “One more for the lady please, Philip...on my tab.”
She raised her hand to the bartender. “Thank you, no. I’m about to leave.”
Sperling turned, looked at the bartender, then to her. “It’s just a peace offering,” he said. “To apologize for our rudeness.”
Games, players, calculations. She couldn’t seem too unavailable or she’d lose him. She nodded and pushed her empty glass toward the bartender.
Sperling smiled a brief, smug, victory grin then turned to Trembly. “Bob. It’s good to see you, but we can talk about this tomorrow.”
Trembly smiled thinly and nodded. “Nice to see you, Colton. I’ll have Alice call Fran tomorrow and pencil me in for a sit-down.”
“I look forward to it,” Sperling replied, flashing a sincere enough looking smile. But even she saw on his face there would be no meeting.
Trembly picked up his drink and walked away. Sperling watched his back until the elder Congressman moved out of earshot. When they were alone, he turned to her, hand extended, and flashed his trademark roguish grin. “Colton Sperling.”
Score! she thought, shaking his hand.
With the gleam in his eye and his boyish charm, it was easy to see why so many women wanted to bed him. Like most power players in DC, it didn’t seem to matter that he was already married.
“Samantha,” she replied, smiling to match his.
When he sat, pulling his stool closer to hers, she noted the subtle familiarity he exhibited, putting his hand on the back of her chair. Colton looked around. “Where is your sponsor?”
She smiled knowingly. “Inside the club.”
“Your husband?” he asked.
She shook her head, flexing her ring finger to signal she wasn’t otherwise attached. “Uncle.”
“Ah...maybe I know him?”
“Maybe,” she said, looking down at her drink. “He’s a staffer for Secretary Hurley.”
He stared at her for a moment, waiting for her to elaborate. When she didn’t he leaned closer. “You said you were about to leave. You weren’t going to wait for your uncle?”
She shook her head. “I badgered him into bringing me even though he warned me it would be boring... He was right.”
Colton leaned even closer, lowering his voice. “Would you like for me to hail a cab for you?”
She smiled. “That would be lovely.”
He sat up straight and smoothed his tie. “I have to say good-bye to a couple of people,” he said, standing. “I’ll meet you out front in five minutes.”
She nodded and waited for him to leave before shouldering her purse. As she walked across the room, gaining more attention than she had on the way in, she caught a glimpse of Colton in the mirror looking at her. A smile rose to her cheeks as she walked down the stairs to the darkened sidewalk. She waved off the valet and stood in the shadow of the canopy. A few moments later, Colton appeared and handed a ticket to the parking attendant.
As they waited for the Congressman’s car, he stepped closer, his shoulder touching hers. “Won’t your uncle be jealous?”
“I don’t see why he would...he has my aunt waiting for him at home.”
Sperling squinted, clearly unsure if he should press her further—uncle was usually code for “an ineligible gentleman in the company of someone he shouldn’t be”. Samantha had cast doubt on that.
He nodded, obviously reserving judgment. “Okay.”
The car arrived and he opened the door for her. Her short, red cocktail dress rode high as she got in, giving him a glimpse of the top of her stockings. He smiled slyly and went around, tipping the valet with a hundred dollar bill—no doubt a bribe for his silence.
As they drove away, she reached into her purse and took out her lipstick, applying a fresh layer in the reflection of the vanity mirror on the visor. When they passed Pennsylvania Avenue, she turned to him and leaned over, wrapping her arm around his shoulder. Her finger traced the contour of his neck before pressing gently on a spot behind his ear. Sperling turned to her and smiled hungrily.
She abruptly sat up and buckled her seat belt.
Sperling’s smile melted in confusion. “What’s wrong?” he asked, then shook his head as if clearing cobwebs.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she moved her seat back as far as it would go, then cinched her seat belt tight across her lap. He blinked his eyes and squinted forward as if having difficulty focusing.
Confusion and then pain flashed on Sperling’s face. He flinched in physical distress—then once again more severely.
“Oh no,” he muttered as his hand shot to his left arm. “Oh shit.”
Still, Samantha said nothing, tugging at her shoulder strap and holding it tight in her fist.
Sperling’s face contorted, first a mask of pleading, then anger as his shoulders curled inward in pain. “What did you do to me?!”
Still, she faced forward, wordless, expressionless.
He groaned and sucked raggedly for breath, clutching at his chest. As
the expensive sports car hit the curb, scraping bottom before skidding over the sidewalk, Samantha crossed her arms over her chest and dropped her head into the fold. The car plowed into a bench near the entrance of the famous Willard Hotel, then slammed into a tree.
She bounced forward upon impact, smacked in the face by the airbag.
It took several long, deep breaths to recenter herself. Her ears rang loudly, and her face stung from the airbag.
Someone ran over and opened her door. “Are you okay?” the man asked mechanically like someone asking if you want fries with that.
She nodded as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and sat up. Camera flashes assaulted her from her side.
“Hold on,” she said, then leaned over to unbuckle Sperling’s belt and unfasten his pants. “Okay. Go ahead.”
After several more shots, she clicked the release on her seatbelt and got out, lifted to her feet by strong hands. Several people rushed out of the hotel and gathered cautiously around the crashed vehicle as they hurried to the corner. When she stumbled, he slipped his arm through hers and half steadied, half lifted her into a waiting sedan.
“Go,” he said to the driver as he closed the door. He looked over at Samantha. “Are you okay?”
She nodded with little conviction as she sank back in her seat. Her head felt light and dizzy from the impact, and she took several deep breaths attempting to compose herself. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand again, cognizant of the poison strip still on her finger and avoiding contact with her bare skin. Braun watched her for a moment then, with gloved hands, covered her left index finger in a tissue and pulled off the transparent film that covered the tip.
“Don’t want to forget about this,” he said, grinning as he stuffed the tissue and the drug delivery film in a plastic baggie. After tucking it into another bag on the floor, he picked up his camera.
“He almost didn’t bite,” she said, feeling her forehead with her fingers.
Braun continued scrolling through the photos on the camera and shook his head without diverting his attention from the screen. “Nonsense. How could anyone resist your charms.”
She scoffed, smiling thinly.
He stopped on one image and smiled. “That’s the one.”
He leaned over and showed her the shot. It looked as if her head had been in his lap, his pants open. She nodded absently, touching her forehead with her fingers then looking at a smear of blood on the tips. “Shit.”
Braun looked up, concern in his expression. “Use this.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she muttered, pressing it to her forehead.
He leaned back and sat the camera on the seat between them. “We have a Gulfstream waiting for you on the tarmac. We’ll have you in London by sunrise.”
She nodded and closed her eyes. “Trembly saw me at the bar,” she said as she pulled the blonde wig off and tossed it to the floorboard.
“I know,” Braun said. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
Her cheek twitched and she turned to him, curious as to why she didn’t have to worry about it. She opened her mouth to ask, but as she began to speak, her words caught in her throat.
She closed her mouth and reached for the bottle of water in the pouch on the back of the driver’s seat, but her arm fell halfway through the motion, weak as if it were made of lead. Fear surged as muscle contractions rippled across her shoulders and up her neck. Her eyes flashed to the handkerchief she had used to dab the blood from her forehead. I should have known, she thought. No loose ends.
She looked up at Braun as the pressure in her chest became real pain. “Son of a—”
But he stared forward, ignoring her discomfort. After a moment, he leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder. “The cleanup van is on the next street...turn left then right into the alley.”
The driver nodded and executed his turn, smoothly and without urgency.
A thick mucus coated her throat making it difficult to breathe, and a heavy rattle of fluid filled her chest. Her head lulled sideways as they stopped next to a van and the back door opened.
Samantha convulsed as her closing throat struggled to choke up the foam forming in her chest. A man leaned in and grabbed her arm.
“Give her a minute,” Braun said to the man outside.
“No time. I have to get the security footage from the club.”
Braun shrugged and nodded. Someone reached into the car and pulled Samantha out, lifting her effortlessly. The pain built in her chest, making her feel as if her ribcage was going to crack under the intense compression. Her head swung backward over his arm, unable to fight gravity with the muscles in her neck. She looked at Braun with pleading eyes. He met her gaze with an emotionless stare briefly before leaning over and tossing her wig, purse, and the plastic bag from the floorboard into the street.
“Get rid of those too,” he said then pulled the door closed.
The car drove off, leaving Samantha writhing in agony on the pavement outside the van.
The man who had pulled her out of the car opened the van’s sliding side door. He casually tossed the bags inside before lifting and shoving her inside like a sack of trash. She convulsed on the bare metal floor of the van while her driver went around and got in, starting the engine.
As he drove away, a powerful seizure gripped her and banged her head against the ribbed metal floor of the van. Her driver glanced back in the rearview mirror then refocused ahead.
He turned onto the street and she rolled sideways, feeling the disposal bag beneath her. With a cloud of darkness falling on her, she willed her arm to move, opening the bag with shaking fingers. She reached in and found the baggie containing the thin film she had drugged Congressman Sperling with.
She looked up, forcing her eyes to focus on her driver, fighting past the tunnel closing in on her eyesight. Anger pulsed through her, forcing her heart to beat though it seemed to have forgotten how to. The driver seemed oblivious to her actions as she pulled the top open and retrieved the tissue. She coughed and tasted blood rising to her mouth.
Her driver looked back. “Hey. What are you doing?” he asked, sounding more annoyed than concerned. He stopped the van abruptly, sending her sliding forward like unsecured luggage. He reached down and grabbed her by the hair, but his face twisted in confusion when she smiled and grasped his bare wrist.
He laughed and punched her in the side of the head before shoving her back to the rear of the van. When he returned to his seat and began driving again, he lifted his hand from the wheel and looked at his wrist where she had grabbed him. “What the—?”
Panic struck him as he grabbed at then flicked away the thin film from his wrist. He slammed on the brakes sending her skidding forward again. When she hit the center console, she reached up and grabbed the steering wheel, jerking it roughly to the side. As the van tipped and began to roll, she closed her eyes and smiled. She heard him grunting and choking as she drifted into blackness, only vaguely aware the van had burst into flames.
The ringing in her ears gave way to silence and a sense of peace. Finally, she thought.
four
Wednesday, April 27th
6:45 a.m.—Falling Water, West Virginia
WOLF could hear Petty Officer Cooper walking toward the house, no doubt in search of fresh coffee for his thermos—his watch was about to begin. The house remained quiet otherwise, but he knew he would have company soon—John’s snoring down the hall had stopped mid snort a few minutes earlier and had not resumed.
The coffee was still dripping into the pot when Cooper opened the door.
“Coffee is almost ready, Deadeye,” Wolf said without turning from his computer.
“How’d you know it was me… I was quiet.”
Wolfe smiled. “Your watch is next, and Whalen doesn’t drink coffee.”
Cooper shook his head, grinning, as he opened the cabinet and took out a box of cereal. A moment later
, Wolf heard John’s bedroom door open. He turned on the television in the kitchen then returned his attention to the lines of code in front of him.
“Morning, Coop,” John said as he rolled his wheelchair into the room.
Cooper pulled a mug down and set it next to his thermos as he turned. “Morning, sir. Coffee?”
John nodded. “Thanks.”
On the TV, the news droned about the death of Congressman Sperling in the wee hours of the night. A news crawler inched its way across the screen, briefing early risers on the scandal wrapped tragedy overnight.
An attractive blonde anchor stared, smiling into the camera before adjusting to her more somber expression to match the news she was reading from the teleprompter.
“The Capitol is in shock this morning over the death of Congressman Colton Sperling, controversial House Speaker and deficit hawk. Congressman Sperling died last night, apparently suffering a heart attack as he drove from a private club near the Capitol. His car crashed in front of the Historic Willard Hotel. A medical examiner’s report is due this afternoon to determine if the crash precipitated his heart attack or if the heart attack caused the crash.”
“Sperling, huh?” John asked, without looking from the TV.
Wolf nodded. “Nice work, too, if the tox screen comes back clean.”
John turned to Wolf. “People have heart attacks you know.”
Wolf smiled without looking up.
“Surrounded by a flurry of rumors, a photo was published this morning on a well-known Washington tabloid blog showing what might be the immediate aftermath of the incident. In the image, a young blonde woman appears with the Congressman in the car but was not present when authorities arrived on the scene.”
The still image of the woman, forehead bloodied and covering her face with her hand, filled half the screen. Behind her, you could clearly see the congressman’s pants were undone.
“Oh shit,” John muttered.
“Yeah. They didn’t just want him out of the way. They wanted him politically untouchable even in death.”
John shook his head.