Corruption of Power

by Brenda English

  “I think somebody coldcocked you,” he said decisively, standing up to lower the mainsail as we reached the green buoy that marked the entrance to the channel up to the marina. “Which should come as no surprise,” he added in a grim postscript.

  Once the sail was down, Lansing reached up on top of the cabin and secured the billowing fabric with a couple of elastic tie-downs. Then he turned the ignition key for the engine, to take us back to the slip under power.

  Neither of us tried to talk over the engine as we headed into the creek. Soon we were at the marina, where Lansing turned the boat around, put it into reverse, and backed it into the first slip, using a long pole with a hook on the end to keep the boat from bumping the pier. A man and a woman, whose boat was two slips farther in, ran over matter-of-factly to help. They expertly fended Second Wind off the pier with hands and feet, caught the lines Lansing tossed them, and tied the boat to the metal cleats that were bolted along the pier.

  Lansing shut off the engine and jumped nimbly to the pier, where he thanked the couple for their help. I waited on board the boat while he secured lines ail around, and then I caught the hand he held out to make sure I ended up on the pier and not in the water. Once I was on solid footing, he let go my hand and caught me by the arm instead. He stood close, looking down at me hard, but not, I realized, angry. Instead, I thought in surprise, he looked concerned.

  “I’m going up to the store for a Coke,” he said quietly. “I want you to come with me and sit down and tell me how you got that lump on your head.” I thought about Peter Morris and about my little parking-lot adventure and decided he probably was right. It was time to let him in on as much as I thought I could.

  “Okay,” I said, unable to look away. He just nodded, and turned to go, using his hold on my arm to bring me up beside him. He dropped his hand and we walked together up the pier to the gate and across the parking lot to the marina building, where we climbed the steps to the deck.

  “Grab a table,” Lansing said. “I’ll be right back. What can I bring you?”

  “A diet Coke is fine.”

  He walked away to get the drinks. There was no one else on the deck, so I took a chair at a corner table, facing the water. Two minutes later he was back, canned sodas in hand, a napkin around the bottom of each can. He put one in front of me, then pulled out the other chair and sat down.

  * * * *

  “Let’s have it,” Lansing said, popping the top on his soda and drinking some of it down.

  “It’s about Ann Kane,” I said, using the napkin to wipe off the top of my soda can before opening it.

  “What about her?”

  “Do you have any idea yet how she died?” The diet Coke was cold and biting as I took a swallow. It felt good in the now midday heat.

  “We know how she died,” Lansing said, somewhat impatiently. “Someone gave her a drug that didn’t mix with one she was already taking.”

  “No, I mean do you have anything to tell you who was there when she died?”

  “No,” he answered, clearly irritated at the department’s lack of results. “We don’t have a goddamn thing!”

  “Peter Morris thought he knew. He thought he knew who gave her the Demerol and who was there when she died. Or at least one of them. And I think he was right.”

  Lansing lowered his soda can slowly and held it in his hand, his arm on the table.

  “How would he have known that—unless he was there?” he asked.

  “No, he wasn’t part of it. But a few weeks before, one of his patients brought a young woman to him in the middle of the night, a woman who also worked on the Hill, who had been given the same drug Ann Kane got later and who had gotten sick from it. Morris pumped out her stomach and made sure she would be all right. When he read about Ann Kane, all the pieces fell into place for him. He was convinced that it was his patient who drugged Ann Kane and who dumped her body when she died.”

  “Who was his patient?”

  “Senator Ed Lloyd.”

  “What? You’re joking!”

  “No, I’m absolutely serious. Deadly serious, in fact, after what happened to Dr. Morris… and after this.” I gestured to my head.

  Lansing sat and looked at the water for a couple of minutes. I could see he was trying to fit Ed Lloyd into the picture he had carried in his mind of the men who had let Ann Kane die. Finally, he turned back to look at me.

  “Tell me what Morris knew,” he said, “what made him think it was Lloyd.”

  Step-by-step I took him through Morris’s reasoning and my own. I told him about the woman Lloyd had brought to Morris and Morris’s impressions of her. I told him about Morris remembering that he had prescribed Demerol for Lloyd, and how, when he had read about Ann Kane, he also had remembered that Lloyd’s rare blood type was the same as one of her assailants. I told him about Lloyd’s reputation on the Hill and among the media. I was sure he had heard about it, but I wanted him to realize that the truth of it probably was even worse than he knew.

  “The worst part,” I said, “is that I really don’t believe Dr. Morris killed himself, and I’m afraid I’m the one who got him killed.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Morris was safe as long as Lloyd thought Morris had kept his secret. But when you stopped me at the cemetery on Friday, I had just asked Lloyd how well he knew Ann Kane. He didn’t ask who she was, didn’t look confused. He just looked really pissed off. That’s when I started to believe that Morris was right, that Lloyd really had done it.”

  “And you think he killed Morris, too, for talking to you?”

  “I don’t know, but I think somebody killed Morris. I don’t believe he killed himself.”

  “Why not?”

  “I went over there because he called me. He was upset and scared. He said something had just happened and that he really needed to talk to me about it. He was afraid, not suicidal.”

  “And what was it that had happened?” Lansing’s mind was still running my theory through his mental calculator.

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t talk about it over the phone. But I think Lloyd came to the logical conclusion that Morris had talked to me. Morris was the only one who knew about the other woman, who had enough information to make the connection between her and what happened to Ann Kane. I think Lloyd must have called Morris and threatened him, then decided the only safe way was to shut him up before he could say any more.”

  “Did Morris tell you who this other woman was?” Lansing clearly was following my logic.

  “He didn’t know.” Although it was the truth, it was only part of it. But I left it at that. I might have to tell Lansing this much, to get him off my back and myself off the hook, but I wasn’t ready yet to give away the whole store, to give him Maggie Padgett.

  “He thought she probably worked somewhere on the Hill, like Ann Kane did, said she was pretty, with dark hair and violet eyes.” Let Lansing and his guys make their own effort to find her, I thought.

  “And your head?” he asked. “You want to tell me about that?”

  “Someone grabbed me in the parking lot of my building last night when I got home from dinner, and hit me on the head.”

  “What makes you think it was connected, that it wasn’t a mugger or a rapist who picked you out at random?”

  “He had a message for me. He told me to lay off if I knew what was good for me.”

  “Lay off what?” Lansing asked.

  “He didn’t say. Apparently, I was supposed to know.”

  “Could it have been in connection with something else you’re working on? Another story?”

  “I don’t think so. The only other thing I have going is Janet Taylor, but it’s certainly no surprise to Hub Taylor that people are wondering if he killed her.” Again the truth, but only part of it. He didn’t have to know about my speculation that Hub Taylor might have been with Lloyd when Ann Kane died, or that his wife somehow had found it out.

  Lansing pushed his chair back from th
e table to face the water and crossed a leg over a knee, thinking.

  “So, do you think I’m nuts?” I asked when he looked back at me.

  “Yes, but that’s not the question,” he said, his eyes smiling a little, in spite of the serious mouth. “The question is, do I think you’re right? The answer is, I don’t know. It’s all pretty circumstantial to try to hang manslaughter or murder charges on a senator with. On the other hand, I can’t take a chance on not following up in case you are right. But we’ll have to move carefully. If Lloyd was involved, I don’t want to tip my hand to him until I can nail him.”

  “Not to mention the pressure he could bring to bear if he finds out you’re looking at him,” I added.

  “True. No, I think we’ll have to go after it quietly. I can try to get a warrant to search Morris’s patient records. No judge will be happy to give me carte blanche to go through them, but I can make a case for his death looking suspicious. If I can get into them, I can confirm Lloyd’s blood type, and maybe there’ll be something else somewhere about the woman he treated, something that will help us find her. In the meantime we had better go back and do a lot more asking around up on the Hill. Talk to anyone we can find who knew Ann Kane at all, see if we can figure out who the other woman might have been.”

  “So what will you be telling the rest of the press about Dr. Morris?” I asked, knowing any hint that the police suspected something other than suicide would confirm for Lloyd that I—and probably Maggie Padgett—were loose ends he might want to tie up once and for all.

  Lansing thought about it. “Until we say otherwise,” he decided, “it’s still an apparent suicide. His ex-wife is taking the body to Boston for a funeral and burial there, so I would think any other media interest in his death will die off pretty soon. But that does bring up one more thing.”

  “What?” I thought I had given him enough to placate him.

  “Your safety. If you’re right, and Lloyd or someone he sent grabbed you last night, you’re running a real risk. I think you should let us put somebody with you for a few days. We could protect you if Lloyd does decide to go after you next, and if we could catch him at it, it would be one more case against him.”

  “Thanks for the concern, but no thanks,” I said firmly. A police escort would be the death of my efforts to go after Lloyd myself, as well as any future conversations with Maggie.

  “Be sensible,” he said, sounding irritated that I didn’t like his idea. “You’ve got someone out there—whether it’s Ed Lloyd or someone else entirely—who thinks you’re a threat and who already has warned you once. What are you going to do if they decide to make good on their threat? I want you to drop this whole thing right here and let us handle it. And let me put someone with you. Bill Russell and I can make sure you get first dibs on information, if you’re worried about that.”

  Don’t you ever learn? I thought as my macho meter climbed into the red zone.

  “And in the meantime they can report my every move back to you?” I asked angrily. “Forget it. I’m not dropping this story, and I’m not having a baby-sitter. If I let myself get scared off by a knock on the head, I might as well quit my reporting job right now. So forget both those ideas.”

  “I wasn’t trying to plant a spy on you,” Lansing replied testily, now just as angry as I was. “I was trying to make sure nothing happened to you. If you weren’t so damned pigheaded, you’d see it’s for your own protection.”

  “I don’t need you to protect me. I can do just fine without your help.” The conversation was really heating up.

  “Oh yeah?” he said nastily. “Well, your little episode in the parking lot sure doesn’t sound like it.”

  I could see this was counterproductive, especially since I was coming out on the short end.

  “Look,” I said, standing up from the table. “I’ve tried to be helpful. I’ve told you about Morris and about Ed Lloyd. What you do with it is up to you. But don’t think that gives you the right to tell me how or when to do my job. It doesn’t, so don’t even try.”

  Lansing stood up, too, pushing his chair back violently. So much for our pleasant morning.

  “I’m just trying to do mine,” he said. “And if you weren’t so determined to misinterpret everything I say, you’d see that!”

  “Detective,” I said, getting a grip and lowering my voice as a couple of people down on the docks turned to look at us, “I think we’re at an impasse here. I think the best thing for both of us is just to get on with our jobs and try to stay out of each other’s way.” Which was really the last thing I wanted, but being around him always ended in an argument, so what was the point?

  “Thanks for the sailing lesson,” I finished lamely. “I actually did enjoy it.” I turned and walked in the direction of my car. Behind me, I heard his muffled curse, followed by a clang as he threw the soda cans into a metal trash can on the edge of the deck.

  I was down the steps and crunching my way across the graveled lot, when he came quickly up behind me, grabbed my arm, and spun me around.

  “McPhee,” he said fiercely, his face and body inches from mine.

  “What?”

  We stood there, looking at each other, the narrow space between us filled with tension. I wondered whether he was going to hit me or kiss me; his face looked like he wanted to do both. Then he appeared to realize what he was doing. His expression changed to one of embarrassment. He dropped my arm and took a step back.

  “Sorry,” he said, still looking at me. He turned and walked back toward the piers and his boat. I sighed heavily, from the release of the tension and in frustration with him, then turned, too, and went to my car for the trip back to Alexandria.

  I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening reading the News, as well as the Sunday editions of the Post and the New York Times, and wondering what I should do now and whether Lansing would call to continue our argument. As much as I didn’t want to fight with him anymore, I knew my voice was right when it sarcastically pointed out that I was disappointed when the phone didn’t ring.

  Monday

  Twenty-three

  I knew I had better start the week off with a stop to see Bill Russell. I couldn’t let my problems with Noah Lansing get in the way of either my professional relationship or my friendship with Bill. Both were too important to me.

  When I arrived at 8:30, Bill was already in his office, working his way through a mug of coffee. I stopped at the open door and knocked on the door frame. Bill looked up from a stack of papers he was marking up on his desk. He just shook his head from side to side in a what-are-we-going-to-do-with-you gesture.

  “You might as well come in,” he said, motioning me in from the hall. I crossed the threshold into his simple, uncluttered office: industrial-strength charcoal carpet on the floor, white miniblinds on the window, a wooden desk of unknown vintage, a couple of metal armchairs with black vinyl seats, and a four-drawer filing cabinet where I knew everything was neatly organized and filed away.

  “Coffee?” he asked as I sat down in the second chair.

  “No thanks,” I declined. “I just wanted to check in to see what’s going on and make certain you’re still speaking to me.”

  “In answer to your second question, of course I’m still speaking to you,” he said, looking a little amused. “In answer to the first… well, about the most interesting story I’ve heard this morning is one about a not-very-smart reporter who got hit on the head in a parking lot a couple of nights ago.”

  “You’ve talked to Lansing?” So much for getting my version on the record first. I could just imagine what Lansing must have had to say about it all.

  “Um-huh.” Bill nodded. “I called him an hour ago to see if he had spoken with you again about Dr. Morris. He gave me quite an earful about what you’ve really been up to. I have to say that if it’s all true, it’ll make great headlines. But you’re taking a big chance here, Sutton, maybe even with your life. Would it really be so awful to let Noah Lansing at l
east try to keep you from getting hurt?”

  Bill, I could see, was genuinely concerned about me. It was hard to get angry at that.

  “You know I can’t let it go, Bill,” I told him honestly.

  “I know,” he agreed, “and it really has very little to do with your favorite line about having a job to do. It’s really about you. You’re just like Lansing.” That thought made him smile again.

  “What does that mean?”

  “The both of you are a pair. Even though you can’t get within twenty feet of each other without fighting, one of you is just as stubborn as the other. I sure would hate to be the one who let Ann Kane die, because the two of you are relentless. Neither of you can rest until you have all the answers to all the questions. It’s not just a job, with either of you, it’s become a personal contest between you and the culprit. You can’t stop, not until you’ve proven that you’re smarter and faster than anyone around, including whoever is guilty.”

  Lansing and me alike? I certainly hadn’t seen any evidence of it so far.

  “I thought you said we were like oil and water,” I reminded Bill.

  “You are,” he replied, obviously beginning to enjoy enlightening me about my personality and Noah Lansing’s. “Oil and water aren’t all that different. Both are liquids; one’s just a little heavier than the other. The reason they don’t mix is because they’d each like to be on top, but neither of them will give a molecule to the other so they can both win.”

  Shit, I thought, he’s right.

  “Gee, Bill, you’re a regular Mr. Wizard, aren’t you?” I said, not wanting him to know his little analogy had hit a nerve. “Next thing I know, you’ll be dragging out the Junior Scientist Chemistry Set you probably have in your file cabinet and giving me a little demonstration.”

  Bill laughed, but he wasn’t dropping it.

  “Just ask yourself whether the byline or getting to the answer before Lansing does or anything else is worth your life,” he said, becoming serious once more. “You’re my friend, Sutton. I’d like to see you live a long time. And if you’re right about Ed Lloyd—and I think Lansing believes in his gut that you are—you’re messing with a very powerful guy. He won’t think twice about slapping you down if he thinks you’re a threat.”