As the first of the mourners reached the grave site, they began to take the rows of folding chairs lined up along the side of the grave, with Taylor, the in-laws, and Lloyd in the first row. I turned my attention to the senator, a tanned, fit-looking, broad-shouldered man of fifty-seven or fifty-eight, his once-black hair now on the silver side of salt-and-pepper. Taller than Hub Taylor, he exuded the kind of strength and power that comes from those who know no self-doubt. Ed Lloyd had been wielding power in Washington, D.C., first as a representative and then as a senator, for more than twenty-five years. He had belonged to a variety of powerful committees, currently chaired Foreign Affairs, and was considered the heir to the throne of the Senate Appropriations Committee.
If Hub Taylor’s motives for killing his wife were a puzzle, it was even more puzzling to imagine someone of Ed Lloyd’s stature risking it all by drugging a woman to have sex. Stranger still to see these two men here together when I suspected each of them of having a hand in someone’s death. How truly bizarre, I thought. Two men in powerful positions, two friends, each of them possibly hiding his own terrible and separate secret.
By this time the end of the line of mourners was reaching the grave, where the last of the chairs long since had been occupied and the rest of the group of probably three hundred or more had fanned out to encircle the grave. Several uniformed policemen had arranged themselves as a barrier between those surrounding the grave and the reporters, who were allowed to come only so far and no farther. Because I was on the opposite side of the crowd, I decided to approach and, I hoped, blend into the edges of the group around the grave.
As I slowly made my way from under the tree and over to the grave site, I noticed that among the people off to the right was Noah Lansing, talking softly to a second man I assumed was probably another detective working with him on Mrs. Taylor’s murder. As they talked their eyes constantly moved over the crowd, watching, searching, measured gazes sizing everyone up as a potential murderer. Even if Taylor was at the top of the suspects list, the police weren’t taking chances on missing a less obvious suspect.
When Lansing’s head turned in my direction and watched me approach, I felt a jolt of electricity that told me he somehow knew it was me, in spite of the rain hat. But he made no move to intercept me, probably not believing that even I would be so lacking in manners as to interrupt the graveside services.
To get out of Lansing’s line of sight and to avoid giving myself away to anyone else, I moved to the side, behind a cluster of a half-dozen people. I hoped that in my black coat and hat, I would just look like one more of the grieving.
My goal wasn’t to hear what was being said by the minister. How different could it be from what got said at most burials? Probably no more reassuring either. The graveside services certainly had given me little solace when I had buried Cara one sunny spring morning in south Georgia. Or at my parents’ funeral several years before. Formulaic words never could have contained the essence of who they were. In fact, I thought, the only place I had ever been where they knew the proper way to bury the dead, the way I would want to go out, was New Orleans, where your final send-off could include a parade and music and dancing and a wild party or two. We certainly wouldn’t see that here today. What I really wanted was to position myself to be near Hub Taylor and Ed Lloyd when the graveside rituals ended.
As the minister’s voice dropped, followed by amens from the crowd, the rustle and stirring near the grave halted my reverie about death and told me the exodus was about to begin. As quickly but unobtrusively as I could, I moved to a point where I was in a direct line from the grave to the parked cars. As the crowd parted to let the family descend and enter the waiting cars first, I moved down the edges of the crowd toward the limo that had brought Hub Taylor and his group.
Taylor, his wife’s parents, Ed Lloyd, and the minister came back down the hill as they had climbed it, with the others closest to the grave falling in behind them. By the time they reached the road and the cars, I had worked my way down to the road as well. I decided as I went that trying to talk to Taylor would be a useless exercise in this setting.
But Ed Lloyd was another story. I was certain that, at this point, he had no idea he was at any risk of exposure. Why should he? No one but Peter Morris could connect him to the mystery woman, and even Lloyd didn’t know that Dr. Morris wanted to tie him to Ann Kane. All Morris had was a logical mind, some inside information as Lloyd’s physician, and a lot of supposition. As far as Lloyd knew, Morris hadn’t even made the connection between the woman he helped and what happened to Ann Kane.
The police literally had nothing on Lloyd. He wasn’t even in their ken as a possible suspect. As long as he didn’t make a stupid mistake, there might never be anything to connect him. I decided it could be interesting to apply a little unexpected pressure to see how susceptible to such mistakes he might be.
But I couldn’t do it too openly. Other members of the press also were moving forward in the disorganized dispersal that usually follows a graveside service, and I wasn’t about to let them in on the suspicions I harbored about either of these men. Nor did I want to surprise Peter Morris with my presence, although he seemed to be staying as far away from Lloyd as possible.
By this time the family had reached the limos, and Ed Lloyd stopped to help first Taylor, then Janet’s parents and the minister into theirs. Quickly, I decided what I was going to do.
I stepped around another couple who were between me and the family’s limo and put a hand on Lloyd’s arm. He straightened and turned from the open limo door to see who wanted his attention.
“Senator Lloyd,” I said, counting on my appearance to delay any suspicion of me.
“Yes?” He looked at me questioningly, apparently thinking I was another mourner expressing condolences.
“I’m Sutton McPhee from the Washington News. I have a question I’d like to ask you.”
Irritation sparked in his eyes, but still he saw me as only one of the more morbidly curious of the press.
“I’m sorry,” he said, beginning to turn toward the car again. “Not now.”
But I held my grasp of his arm and leaned toward him, to whisper in his ear, where only he could hear my question.
“How well did you know Ann Kane, Senator?” I said, then stood back for his reaction.
He straightened again, this time slowly, and fixed me with a hard look, as if memorizing my face.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said evenly, and climbed into the limo, pulling the door closed as he went.
But he did. He knew exactly what I was talking about. I had seen no sign of question or confusion in his look. What I had seen was cold anger and warning.
The solid thud of the closing limo door apparently was some sort of signal to the sky to let go the clouds it had been collecting since before dawn, and it began to rain, suddenly and heavily. Around me, everyone started running for their cars, hoping to avoid a drenching. But I stood, the rain pouring down around me, transfixed by what I had seen in Ed Lloyd’s eyes, watching as the limo carried him off to the wake at the Taylor home. Until a hand grabbed my own arm in a firm grasp and I heard Noah Lansing say, “We have to talk.”
* * * *
I didn’t know he was behind me. I jumped.
“Damn it,” I said, before I had time to remember my promise to Bill to be nice, “you scared the shit out of me!”
That was when Noah Lansing smiled at me for the first time, standing there in the pouring rain, both of us getting soaked. He liked the idea of scaring the shit out of me. I was sorry I hadn’t seen him smile sooner. It did wonderful things around his eyes.
“Do you have a car?” he asked.
“This way,” I said, and started walking fast across the edge of the hill to where the VW was waiting. Lansing caught up with me in three strides, and we hurried together around the curve to get to my car and out of the rain.
“It’s unlocked,” I said to him as I jogged arou
nd the back bumper to the driver’s side. He opened the passenger door and got in, deftly folding his tall frame into the small seat and closing the door. I was doing the same thing—well, maybe not the deftly part—on the other side.
No sooner had I gotten in than the sky redoubled its efforts to wash us away, pounding on the fabric roof of my little car in fury at our escape. In the tiny interior of the VW, I was immediately wrapped in the steamy warmth coming off both our damp bodies and the smell of whatever soap and cologne Lansing had used that morning. Combined with the fact that the entire length of his body was only inches away from mine, it made me nervy—as in, every nerve was on edge—and eager to distract my mind with talk.
“Where to?” I asked, fishing my keys out of my raincoat pocket and looking over at him as I reached up to put them in the ignition, being very careful not to brush his leg in the process.
“Nowhere,” he answered, looking out through the windshield, now smeared with rain. “I’ve got a car back there. But I’d just as soon have this conversation privately rather than at the station.”
Oh God, I thought, not another chewing-out. I knew this guy didn’t like me, but really, how much was I expected to endure?
“Look,” I said, thinking to head off another confrontation, “you don’t have to yell at me again. I know you don’t like anything about me, including how I do my job, but I’m really not trying to cause you problems. How about if I just stay out of your way as much as possible. We’ll talk on the phone, if necessary. Can we just call a truce—at least for today?” The weather and a funeral had left me in no mood for sparring with him. Memories of burying my sister had seen to that.
Something in my voice must have echoed my funk. He turned to look at me sharply. I braced myself.
“I was thinking more along the lines of some sort of peace accord rather than a truce,” he said, completely surprising me. I opened my mouth to respond and then closed it again. I didn’t know what to say. I was prepared for another fight, not a cessation of hostilities.
Then, for the second time in two minutes, he smiled, no doubt at the idea of me speechless. This guy in a good mood could grow on you, I thought. He propped his right elbow on the top curve of the door and leaned his head against his hand, giving me a look I couldn’t interpret.
“Bill Russell really gave me a dressing-down yesterday after I threw you out of my office. I won’t go into what he said, about either of us, but the bottom line was he told me I was acting like a prick, and I decided he was probably right. He said you’re as good as your word, and I saw that when I read your article in this morning’s paper. At least when the chief called, he didn’t think the details of Janet Taylor’s autopsy came from me. I’m not saying you’re not a pain in the ass, you understand. I think you have some genuine talent in that direction. I just haven’t known you long enough to really say it from personal experience.” He paused, and a shadow seemed to pass across his face as his thoughts ran ahead.
“Let’s just say there are a lot of reasons why I reacted badly,” he went on, “only some of which had anything to do with you.” I knew the shadow I had seen was the memory of his wife, but I stayed quiet. If Bill hadn’t told him I knew about her, I certainly wasn’t going to tell him I did—at least not yet.
“Anyway,” he said, mentally clearing the memories with an effort I could see, “what I wanted to say was that I’d like to start over here, put things on a professional basis. Bill says you’re a lot easier to tolerate if you’re not mad all the time.”
That smile again. And a sense of humor, too. And even something that felt like an apology. I wasn’t encouraged by the feeling in the pit of my stomach. I should have been thinking, Great, this will make it easier to do my job. But doing my job wasn’t what I was thinking about at all. Sutton, you are in deep, deep trouble here, I told myself, hoping he couldn’t see on my face any of what was going through my mind. I was beginning to find this scary.
Back off, I told myself, back away, now, before he has any idea you’re attracted to him. Before you screw up your job. Before you start to care. Before another man sees the real you and walks away. Before anybody gets hurt—especially you.
I realized how long I had been silent when I saw his smile falter and fade away. I jumped into the breach.
“You’re right,” I told him, knowing his sobering expression probably was a reaction to my own grim one. “There’s no reason we can’t each do our jobs; we don’t have to be friends. And that’s all I want, just to do my job. It’s like I said before, just be up-front with me about what you can and can’t say. And if you can tell me something helpful, great. So thanks for the fresh start.”
That wasn’t what he had expected, obviously. He had been pleasant; I had responded coldly. He had no way of knowing why. I saw a flash of irritation in his eyes again, but in the new spirit of the times, he quickly squelched it.
“Well, that’s all,” he said, his voice now as distant and professional as my own. “If you’ll just drop me back around the curve at my car, I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“No problem,” I answered, turning on the engine and putting the car into gear. The VW easily made the U-turn on the small road and in a few seconds we were at the unmarked car Lansing had driven to the cemetery, now the only other car in sight except for the truck of the grave diggers who had returned to close the last chapter on Janet Taylor’s life. I braked to a stop beside Lansing’s car. He reached for the VW door handle and turned to look at me.
“Thanks… McPhee,” he said, paying me the courtesy of officially promoting me from Ms.
“Sure,” I responded, my voice thick with the effort I was making, my eyes having a hard time meeting his. He opened the door and got out. Immediately, I put the Beetle in gear and drove away, seeing in my rearview mirror that he stood beside his own car, just watching through the now-slowing rain as I left.
Fourteen
I didn’t bother going to the Taylor home to try to crash the wake. I figured Ken would have a much better chance at getting in than I would, especially after my recent conversation with Ed Lloyd and my article in today’s paper, which made it clear that Hub Taylor wasn’t out of the woods in his wife’s death.
Instead, I decided to go to Capitol Hill, to see if there was anything to learn from Senator Paul Black about Dr. Morris’s mystery woman, who had carried Black’s business card around in her coat pocket.
All the way in to the District I replayed the mental tape of my latest encounter with Noah Lansing. What a bitch he must think I am, I told myself. Here he was, just trying to apologize for misjudging me, letting his guard down a little to show the man under that tough-cop skin, and I come across as the ice queen. He couldn’t know the thoughts I had been having about him, couldn’t know that my lack of a warm response to his overture was out of fear of the way he affected me. I could imagine the report he would make back to Bill.
Goddamn it, I thought, honking at a cab that cut in front of me and nearly took off my left front fender, why did Noah Lansing have to be the one who affected me this way? Why couldn’t it have been someone who wasn’t on my beat? Why couldn’t it have been someone who might be affected the same way? Instead it had to be a cop who was investigating my two biggest stories and who blames someone like me for the death of the person he loved most. No way he was going to return the interest.
I went ‘round and ‘round with myself as I drove across Memorial Bridge and took a right around the Lincoln Memorial to follow Independence Avenue to the Hill. Finally, I had to push it all aside to concentrate on finding a parking space—always a challenge in the District—near the Senate Office Buildings and on searching out Paul Black’s office. I knew my dilemma over Noah Lansing still would be there waiting me for once I had time to think about it again.
* * * *
Black’s office was on the second floor of the Russell Building. It took me a few minutes to find it. I rarely spend any time on Capitol Hill. Not because t
here aren’t any criminals there, but because the News has a whole staff of other reporters who cover the Hill and because the type of crime I follow generally confines itself to Northern Virginia. In fact, if anyone at the News had any idea of the lead I was chasing now, Mark Lester would be right back in the city room, demanding I turn over the Ann Kane story as well, and this time with some justification, since his congressional reporters had much better sources here than I did—which were none at all. But I wasn’t turning this story over to anyone, and I was determined to make up for my lack of sources through sheer, cussed stubbornness. Something I do really well.
On the second floor I left the elevator and turned down the corridor to the right. Black’s office was several doors down, again on the right. I went through the door and found myself in the reception area of what I could see actually was a suite of offices. A smartly dressed blonde of about thirty was working the reception desk behind a name placard that said SUSAN BARRETT.
“Hi,” she said, smiling with practiced professional warmth. “May I help you?”
“I’m Sutton McPhee,” I told her. “I’m a reporter with the Washington News”.
“How do you do?” she asked, standing gracefully and holding out a slim hand for me to shake. “I’m Susan Barrett.”
“Hi, Susan,” I responded, shaking hands. “Is Senator Black in, by any chance?”
“No, I’m sorry, he’s not,” Susan told me, using her hands to smooth the full skirt of her green silk dress underneath her as she took her seat again.
“Will he be back anytime soon?”
“I don’t think so. He’s down on the Senate floor right now and will be in committee hearings all afternoon. Could I help you with something?”
“Possibly,” I told her. “I’m working on the Ann Kane story for the paper, and I thought that since she worked for the other Florida senator, the people in your office probably knew her.”
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