Senator Love

by Warren Adler

  "How can you be sure?" Monte asked.

  "I saw it. Blood in her eyes."

  Monte paused, studied her face.

  "It's your blood, Fiona," he said. "Your blood."

  26

  "NAME OF the game," Sam said, spreading his cards on the flowered bedspread.

  "Got me on a schneid," Fiona said, marking the score on the little white pad imprinted with the words "Ramada Inn."

  "It's another of my special skills," Sam said. "The way I figure it you owe me more than a hundred thousand dollars. Now how are we going to work off that debt?"

  It was the third of their so-called "trysts" at the Ramada Inn. They had established a pattern, Tuesdays and Thursdays. They were into the second week since it had begun and Frances had taken the bait. Since the dance, she had waited her own vigil and had caught up to them on Thursday, the second time they had checked into the Ramada.

  The modus operandi was for the Senator and Fiona to stay exactly two hours. Arrive by noon. Leave by two. It was made to appear as a luncheon rendezvous. Sam would be back in his office before two-thirty.

  Fiona had found out that the Senator liked gin rummy and she had brought a deck of cards. It would, she reasoned, keep his mind off what apparently was always on his mind. Maybe hers as well. Not maybe. Her vulnerability was a definite burden.

  "I keep telling myself I'm mad to go along with this," he had told her as they sat in one of the Ramada's rooms the first time. "Not that the company isn't outstanding."

  "Thanks, Senator," she had replied.

  "A good exercise in self-discipline," he had joked, just short of being overly flirtatious. At times he had turned gloomy. "I'll never forgive myself if anything happens to you."

  "Nothing will."

  Had he forgiven himself for the others? She did not wish to probe further on that point. In fact, she wished that she might characterize him as venal and exploitive, a callous man without feelings or redeeming qualities. She couldn't. More and more, she thought of him as the victim, a victim of his own attractiveness.

  After the gin game, he had kicked off his shoes and taken off his jacket and tie, stretching out on the bed, his head resting on his arms. She sat sideways on the bed, her feet on the floor. She had taken off her jacket, but not her piece in its shoulder holster. Lifting his hand, he touched the holster, stroking it.

  "Who's to know?" he whispered. It was no secret between them. There was sexual tension in the room, both of them knew that.

  "I would."

  "Strike that," he sighed, removing his hand.

  "I did."

  She picked up the deck and ran a nail down its side. It made a raspberry sound. He sat up Indian-style while she shuffled the cards.

  "I need to know something," he said. She did not respond, watching him, continuing to shuffle. "If the circumstances were different..." He stopped, then shrugged.

  "They're not," she said. "Besides, such conduct has already gotten you into lots of hot water."

  "I know." He lowered his eyes and sighed. "It's as if all the ladies are facets of one ideal female. Sometimes I feel like a surfer looking for the perfect wave."

  "Nothing is perfect," she said. She knew what he meant. She was also a searcher.

  "When do you think she'll make her move?" he asked.

  "When she's convinced that this is the real thing."

  "Then she had better not bug this place."

  So far Fiona had been on target. They had apparently tempted Frances into following them. Now the goal was to convince her that this was an ardent affair. A pattern had been established for its pursuit. There was a difference, of course. In a desire to keep him out of the loop, they were not using Bunkie's townhouse. They hoped that Frances would accept the Ramada as a logical alternative.

  They had also established a pattern for getting into the Inn with discretion. The Senator parked in the most deserted section of the parking lot, using a car without Senatorial plates. He then went into the side entrance, where there was a handy pay phone away from public traffic.

  Fiona was already in the room, registered under an assumed name. They had been amusingly creative on that point. She had already been Theda Bara and Molly Bloom. Today, dealing with the same clerk as the last time she had checked in, she was Theda Bara again.

  The desk clerk, a young man in the early twenties, had not cracked a smile. She told him she had no credit cards and paid him in cash for one night's stay, as she had done the previous week.

  "A pleasure to have you again, Miss Bara."

  "Why, thank you," she had replied.

  "Any baggage?" he had asked.

  "I can manage," she said, offering a smile.

  Cates had followed Frances, who, in turn, had followed the Senator's car. He reported later that she had stayed patiently in her car, parking it within view of the Ramada's side lot. She did not leave until the Senator came out two hours later. That had been Thursday. Today she was following the same pattern, waiting in her car.

  By the very act of following the Senator's movements, literally spying on them, Frances had established the suggestion, if not the fact, of her guilt.

  Fiona heard a sound in the corridor, got up and looked through the lens in the door. No one. Then she walked to the drawn blinds and peeked through the slit where one side met the other. A shaft of sunlight twinged her eye.

  They had given her a room high up, facing the river. This Ramada was a high rise built on the edge of the Potomac, just beside the flight path of descending planes at National Airport, a mile down the Mount Vernon Highway.

  The choice of the Virginia side had been deliberate and had been debated by the eggplant, Cates and herself at length. The idea was to authenticate the affair in Frances' mind not only as clandestine and illicit but so intense that chances had to be taken by both participants. They were careful to use the word participants as a euphemism for lovers, too careful, collusively careful. They were being deferential to her, avoiding anything that might embarrass her.

  What Cates had also witnessed from the balcony of the Pan American Building was a passionate embrace. No question about it. Under other circumstances, another place, her surrender would have been inevitable. Hazardous duty. Without exactly saying it, she had planted the suggestion that it was merely playacting, which was only partly true.

  Cates had asked her how the Senator and she spent their time during their mock tryst and she had taken out the deck of cards from her pocketbook and shuffled the deck.

  "Better than watching the soaps," she had told him.

  To his credit, he made no further comment.

  "Don't know what's more dangerous. Being holed up in a motel with that lecher or putting your body in front of that crazy lady."

  "I've got the lecher under control," she had replied, resisting turning to meet Cates' gaze. She was certain he had another view of that.

  By choosing a hotel on the Virginia side, where the MPD had no jurisdiction, they were also saying that this was the real thing, that this was not police business. By now, Frances would know she was a police officer. She would have made discreet inquiries, checked her out, found out about her big house in the District.

  In the days following the ball at the Pan American Building, everyone involved had been alerted to "watch their tail" for any signs of Frances. The eggplant had wanted to put Frances under surveillance by another team of cops, but Fiona had resisted.

  "She catches on, the case is blown," Fiona had argued. "There's too many on it as it is."

  The eggplant, still insecure about her making herself a target, knew she was right and, once again, reluctantly consented. Secretly, she was certain he still harbored fantasies of the Senator being in his debt. Indeed, the possibility of Langford becoming President was still a lure, albeit a fading one.

  It was the Senator himself who had spotted Frances. He had just driven his car out of the Senate garage one evening and had seen her, suddenly illuminated by a streetlight, follow
ing him in her car. He made a number of redundant turns to make sure she was, indeed, following him, then he headed for home. It was only when he turned off Nebraska Avenue into the residential streets of Spring Valley that she veered away.

  So she was hooked, stalking him now. The trick had been to discover the pattern of her surveillance. Generally, he wanted to be home before the children went to sleep, which was around eight, which meant that he would leave his office most times around seven-thirty, unless there was an event to attend.

  They had instructed the Senator to begin to take Nell's car, the one with the unmarked plates, every other day. The logic behind that was that it would send a message to Frances that he was taking his wife's car to appear anonymous. More importantly, it was a green Jaguar, distinctive and easily followed.

  Fiona came back to the bed, sat down and began to reshuffle the cards.

  "Do you think she'll ... act today?" Sam asked. He sat up against the bed's backboard, making a headrest from two pillows.

  "We'll know soon enough."

  "It doesn't bother you?" he asked.

  "Sure it bothers me."

  "Are you afraid?"

  "Yes. But I have confidence in my ability and my partner's to prevent such an occurrence."

  "You're very brave," he said sincerely, adding, "It's very tough on Nell, too, All this tension."

  "I can imagine."

  "And if you do get her to attempt your ... your demise, what do you really have?"

  "Two possibilities. We get her on attempted murder. That's really not what we want. What we want is a confession."

  "Juicy stuff either way. Not exactly a good image-builder."

  "Afraid not."

  "I've been wondering if all this was worth it."

  "It is if we can prevent her doing this to others."

  "But I can do that," he sighed. "Keep my nose clean. Stop fooling around. Be satisfied." He looked at her and sighed. "You know, I really care about Nell, the kids. Fact is they're beginning to mean more to me than politics."

  I've heard that before, she thought, remembering how politics had absorbed her father's entire life.

  "Sure," she said with a light touch of sarcasm.

  "I keep wondering what my real motives were for getting into it in the first place." He paused, grew reflective.

  The Power and the Glory, she thought, but said nothing.

  "I told myself," he continued, "that I wanted to make a contribution, help others, give of myself. I was dead certain I was an idealist." He looked at her. She was sitting beside him and he put his hand on hers. She did not pull it away. A brotherly gesture, she decided. They had become friends. Why not? "I'm not sure anymore."

  "My father used to say, It's important for your heart to be in the right place."

  "Meaning what?"

  "He never quite explained it. But what I think he meant was that you had to believe you were helping others, making sure that the pie was shared equitably so that everybody had a running head start. Then showing some compassion for the losers. He said you couldn't be a really good politician or leader unless you had the common touch."

  The memory of her father had kindled something deep inside of her. She saw his sweet Irish face, the good smell and feel of him.

  Sam was silent for a long time. He continued to hold her hand.

  "Sometimes," Sam said, "I feel corrupt." He shot her a glance, and absently picked up her hand and kissed it. "Not material-greed corrupt. Never that. Besides, Nell has plenty of money. Never was my bag anyway. I mean selling-my-soul kind of corrupt. The thing I wrestle with is ... well ... I hope you don't mind." Again he kissed her hand. "Not that I'm worthy. Not that I don't have the skills. The thing..." He turned and looked into her eyes. She had no doubt about his sincerity. "...The thing I have to decide within myself is ... Am I a good man? Not a perfect man. A good man."

  "Like my father said, Is your heart in the right place?"

  "But politics makes you devious. You have to be devious to get elected. That's corrupting."

  "I suppose that's true everywhere. Maybe devious is the wrong word. Maybe you mean finding a strategy that works for you."

  "To achieve what?"

  "To fulfill your aspirations. To be."

  He shook his head and his eyes misted as if he were suddenly caught up in some strong emotion. She sensed the contagion in herself.

  "How is it possible to be truly honest?" he whispered.

  "It's a dilemma," she admitted, feeling again something move deeply within her.

  He gently pulled her hand and her body followed. He put his lips on hers, exploring gently, then opened his mouth. She yielded, taking his tongue. He continued to be gentle and unaggressive. But not tentative. When he disengaged his lips, he whispered in her ear.

  "You think we can deal with this, Fiona?"

  "Only if we do our Dear-Johns and -Janes in advance. When it's over, it's over."

  He opened the top button of her blouse. She started to finish the job, reaching to remove her holster.

  "Leave it," he whispered.

  She did not question the idea. He watched her as she removed her blouse, leaving the holster, then her brassiere. Her breasts fell free. She felt good letting him watch her. He reached out and gently touched her nipples.

  "I think women in general are the most wonderful creatures on earth," he said as he removed his shirt.

  "I think that's the heart of it, Sam," she whispered. "Women know. They sense how you feel and it attracts them enormously. That's your secret, Sam." And here I am responding to it, she thought, without shame, tapping into it, feeling the joy of it.

  Bare from the waist up, they moved toward each other. Slowly they undressed each other, taking off what remained. She studied him in the faint light. He was a fine-looking man, slender and still boyish. His erect penis was as smooth and white as ivory and she bent down to kiss it.

  She felt a delicious trembling begin within her. Reaching out, he helped her up and held her tight against him. His kiss was deep, his hands strong, as they lifted her buttocks, placing her body at the edge of a dresser for support. Then he entered her and she gasped as she surrendered to the pleasure.

  Later, if he would have asked her, "Did the earth move for you?" she would have answered proudly in the affirmative. Three times it moved. She could not bring herself to ask such a question, but she knew he, too, had transcended some previous barrier. It was something sensed, something sure.

  As before, after a much more tender farewell than they had experienced before, he left her. She looked at her watch. They had overstayed by more than a half hour. She showered and dressed in ten minutes, then dashed down to her car.

  Through the rearview mirror, she could see Cates' car waiting by the curb. Starting the car, she moved slowly out of the lot. She unlocked the glove compartment and removed the walkie-talkie. But she did not raise it to her mouth.

  Another car had begun to follow her. Through the mirror she could see the driver.

  Frances was following her now. Only her.

  27

  FRANCES' CALL came early Sunday morning. It seemed so banal a gesture for such a potentially ominous event. Cates had moved into Fiona's house, occupying the room next to the master bedroom, which had been hers when she was growing up. They were connected with an open radio, and there was no way that Fiona could be approached without Cates hearing.

  On Friday they had gone to work as usual. Sam had called her early.

  In their conversation, the communication between them was less in the words they spoke than in their tone and the pauses between them. The very idea that they were protecting their secret exhilarated her and the sound of his voice was undeniably exciting.

  "You have got to be careful," he told her. He had, of course, been informed that Frances had followed her home. Was the message of his concern subject to another, more personal, interpretation? Like he needed her to be careful because he needed her. Dammit, put a lid on that
one, she rebuked herself.

  Rather than return to headquarters after leaving the hotel, Fiona had chosen to drive home on the theory that, if Frances was to act swiftly, she would hardly make a move in or near police headquarters.

  Frances' car stayed at a respectable distance. Cates had pulled in behind her. But when Fiona pulled into her driveway, Frances proceeded past it. Cates had continued to follow her car, which took a series of right turns, then headed back down Wisconsin Avenue to her home in Georgetown.

  "She's sniffed the bait and her appetite's up," the eggplant commented after hearing the report.

  "Live bait," Fiona replied, like the boy whistling in the cemetery. Am I scared? she asked herself. Bet your ass.

  "That extra forty minutes had us concerned," Cates pointed out. Fiona repressed the urge to kick his shins. Did he know? she wondered, searching for a logical explanation.

  "We thought it might send a tougher message, prod her to believe that this one was really hot, heavy and serious. It cost me another fifty thou in gin losses." She could not suppress a girlish giggle. Liar, liar, she railed at herself. She took a quick reading of their expressions. Nothing untoward. They were either hiding it or buying it.

  She felt no guilt. Nor any sense of violation of professional ethics. Time had to be killed anyway. What better way? Dirty lady, she admonished herself. The fact was that the memory of those moments with Sam, both psychic and physical, still lingered deliciously.

  She could not remember a more powerful experience. And yet his history mitigated against his being as moved as her. The reality was that she had been one among many. Not, as she might have fantasized, that special one, the perfect one, the searched-for one. Or, perhaps, the unspoken assumption that this would be the one and only time had forced their passion to a penultimate explosion of feeling. In her heart, she longed for more. It was, she knew, a greedy, selfish, stupid idea, unprofessional and risky. And it led to a malevolent wish ... that Frances would be cautious, string things out, keep the ploy working. Now there was a conflict of interest.