With Malice

by Rachel Lee

  "I could work my entire life and never afford one of these houses," Karen said.

  "It's out of my league, too," Connally answered. "But there's a nice hotel up here that I hope the City of Tampa can afford. Have you ever been to Washington before?"

  "Once. As a child. But that was years ago."

  He nodded. "I'll teach you how to use the Metro. It's cheaper than cabs, and you can get anywhere."

  "It's quiet up here," she said. "It's as if the entire city is quiet."

  "It's a Saturday."

  Karen cocked an eyebrow. "I know. I'd expect people to be out and about, free from the workaday grind."

  He chuckled. "Not hardly. Welcome to Washington, Detective. Capital city of the most powerful country in the world. Weekends are just a different kind of work days."

  "A different way of shuffling papers?" she asked jokingly.

  "Something like that," he said casually, although his eyes darkened for a moment.

  She'd offended him. "I said something wrong."

  Connally shrugged. "Most people think it's that way. We shuffle papers and make speeches and collect big paychecks and bigger bribes. Truth is, the pace grinds you down after a while. Senator Lawrence is almost never not working. He reads three newspapers over breakfast, if he can get breakfast to himself. Lunch is shop talk. Dinner is deal-making. If he wants to hear the symphony play at the Kennedy Center, he's as much on stage as any of the musicians. I once had to physically block a reporter who was bird-dogging him while he was at the zoo with his girls. Grant was changing Belle's diaper, and the guy wanted to follow him into the bathroom."

  "God," Karen whispered.

  Jerry nodded out the window. "And it's not just Grant Lawrence who lives that way. Everyone in this city is under a microscope. Someone is always watching. Political allies. Political enemies. The press. The intelligence agencies, our government's and others'. Everyone wants to know what's going to happen before it happens, so they can calculate their own gains and losses, nudge it along or block it. Washington belongs to the people who get up the earliest, stay up the latest, see the most, hear the most, know the most, ingratiate the most, piss off the fewest and work the hardest."

  He turned to her. "And that's why I haven't seen my brother since a year ago Christmas. And he lives an hour away."

  "I never realized," Karen said. "I mean, I never thought about it."

  "Nobody does, Detective. Point is, it's Saturday. For most of the rest of the world, that means a weekend, a couple of days off. In the language of the press, those are 'slow news days.' So reporters are scrambling for anything to make copy. And no one wants to be fodder for a slow news day. That's why it's so quiet."

  Karen could hardly imagine it. Yes, she'd worked on and around a couple of high-profile cases, where it seemed the press was all over every move the department made. But that was transitory. And, by and large, the scrutiny was limited to her professional activities. When she went home, she was just another private citizen, passing through life without much notice.

  For people like Grant Lawrence, that never happened. There was no such thing as an idle trip to the grocery to stock up on nachos and a six-pack for a ball game. That, she suspected, meant whispered rumors about alcoholism or some such.

  A college professor had, before his first class, explained that Karen and her classmates could use any kind of pen they wished on his exams. "You can use black ink," he'd said, "or blue ink, or even purple ink." Then he'd paused for a moment. "But if you decide to use purple ink, I'm going to notice it. I'll pay extra attention to that paper with the purple ink. So you might want to think twice about what kind of pen you use, and how confident you feel about this exam."

  Karen had used black ink. If she could have, she would have used invisible ink.

  Senator Lawrence, like the other movers and shakers in this town full of movers and shakers, wrote his life in purple ink. And people noticed every word, every comma, every space.

  They pulled into the hotel, and Connally handed her bag to a bellman. He turned, smiling, and offered her a card. "If you'd like to shower and rest a bit, feel free. Senator Lawrence will send a car when you're ready."

  Karen nodded. A movie line flitted through her mind: You're not in Kansas anymore.

  11

  The car Senator Lawrence sent for Karen deposited her at a row of concrete barricades a hundred yards from the steps of the Capitol, where she could see him halfway up, talking to a small knot of people and pointing toward the building. She wondered if he were suggesting they take a tour.

  Dressed in the best power suit she had, scarlet with black piping, she waited at a respectful distance, not wanting to intrude.

  She'd never been here before, and looking at the Capitol from its very steps, then back across the Mall toward the Washington Monument, filled her with a sense of awe. These were the structures and views that most symbolized her country to her, every bit as much as the flag. She'd often wanted to come here as a tourist, but so far had never managed both the vacation and the money at the same time. Besides, it was a heck of a lot cheaper to go to the Keys or St. Augustine when she needed to get away.

  But here she could feel the weight of history, see the architecture that had turned this place from a swamp into one of the world's great capitals. Looking around, she thought of all the famous people who had climbed these steps.

  Laughter caught her attention, and she looked up in time to see Grant shaking the hands of the men and women with whom he'd been talking. Moments later they turned to descend the steps. When they were a few yards away, Grant came over to her.

  "Detective," he said, offering his hand. "Good to see you."

  "Senator."

  "Those people were from Florida," he remarked. "You might not believe it, but one of my favorite things is talking to my constituents. I especially like it when I have the time to give them the tour."

  She smiled. "I imagine that doesn't happen often. Mr. Connally gave me quite a lecture on the way in from the airport about how hard everyone works here, even on weekends."

  Grant surprised her with a laugh. "That sounds like Jerry. I guess he forgot that you probably work eighty-hour weeks, too."

  Again that Grant Lawrence charm reached out to touch her. The man actually considered other people's lives, and the demands on them. "Sometimes," she admitted.

  His blue eyes locked with hers as he continued to smile. "Looks to me like you're working a weekend right now, Detective."

  "Please, call me Karen."

  "Sure. If you'll call me Grant." He started leading the way down the steps toward the waiting car. "Your boss wasn't exactly clear about what I'm supposed to do. Introduce you around, I guess. Get you in contact with people?"

  "Mainly I need to sniff around and find out who might have it in for you in a really bad way."

  "Bad enough for murder."

  "Something like that."

  He looked down at her. "I hope you have something with sequins on it."

  "Why?"

  "The best thing I can think of to do is take you to a party tonight." He gave a mirthless chuckle. "It's a Party party. Take the measure of the man and all that."

  "An audition?"

  "Something like that."

  Not only was she not in Kansas anymore, but she suddenly realized she might be in well over her head. This was not the kind of investigation she was used to running.

  "Relax," he said, as if he sensed her trepidation. "They're all just human beings, for all they think they might be something more. And I usually bring a staffer or a friend to these shindigs. You won't be out of place."

  * * *

  Karen had never done undercover work. She'd spent a lot of the afternoon thinking about how she would handle it, what lies or half-truths she would tell to blend seamlessly into a crowd of schmoozers.

  The rest of the afternoon she'd spent prowling Georgetown Park, searching for that elusive trifecta: her size, her style, her price range. Sh
e'd finally had to give a little on the price range to find a simple aubergine sheath that was formal without screaming Look at me! Undercover work meant keeping a low profile, or as much of one as possible, given the circumstances. Grant had described the party as "candidate under glass."

  All of that planning had, of course, flown out the window five minutes into the party.

  "You're the cop," the venerable representative from California had said after Grant introduced her. "I saw you on CNN, at the press conference."

  He leaned in, offering her a whiff of breath mints and extra-dry martini. "Do you have any leads?"

  Inspiration struck, and she flashed him a smile. "No. Do you?"

  He guffawed. "Now isn't that just like a cop? Answer a question with a question." He shifted his attention to Grant. "Seriously, Senator, if there's anything I can do, just call."

  "How very kind," Grant said. There was warmth in his voice, but also wariness. "If you'll excuse me, Fred, I need to get Karen a drink." He turned to her. "What would you like?"

  "I'll just come along and see what they have," she said. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rawlings."

  "You don't trust any of these people," she said, after they'd stepped away.

  "Not true." He smiled. "I just haven't introduced you to the ones I do trust. See, everyone here is trying to guess who's in everyone else's inner circle. Who do I listen to? Who listens to me? Whom do you call if you need my vote or my support?"

  "Why not call you?" she asked. "Horse's mouth, and all that."

  "Because if you call me directly, I might need something in return. Something you're unwilling to do. Or, worse, I might just say no. Then word filters out that you can't deliver me, and you go down a notch on someone else's list. No, it's much safer to talk to the people you know talk to me, the people I listen to. If you can convince them to convince me, you've still delivered. If they don't, they go down a notch. Wheels within wheels."

  "And you're creating a smoke screen," she said. "Being seen talking to people, sharing confidential body language, but they're not in your inner circle. Making it harder for people to know what buttons to push to get to you."

  He smiled. "Bingo, Detective. Part of John Kennedy's genius was that people couldn't be sure how they could push his buttons, who they needed to talk to. Except for Bobby, of course, and a couple of other guys, like Kenny O'Donnell."

  "Family, and friends he'd known for years," she said. "Untouchables."

  "Exactly. Beyond that, in a crowd like this, you had no idea who could carry your water for you. So you had to carry it yourself."

  Karen nodded. "Which put him in the driver's seat. Where you'd like to be."

  "The Oval Office isn't a passenger seat, Karen. So what would you like to drink? And you do look stunning, if I neglected to say so before."

  He'd delivered the compliment with such casual aplomb that it caught her off-balance. She felt herself blush and instantly regretted it. She knew she should have thanked him, but it was as if she couldn't find the right tone of voice. She settled for as wide a smile as she could manage without looking goofy. She hoped. "Scotch and soda, please. Very light on the scotch."

  "I'll tell the bartender to wave the bottle over it."

  "That would be perfect. So," she said, pausing for a moment, "now that you've explained the rules of the game, let's play."

  He nodded and handed her the drink. "Look interested, even impressed, but never awed. Remember, everyone in this room spent part of today sitting on the toilet."

  She laughed. "Now that's an image."

  "Keeps things in perspective, doesn't it?"

  Of course, with her cover blown, there was no way she could hide any longer. Or so she thought. It was soon apparent that most of the people in this room hadn't recognized her, or even if they had, they figured that since she'd arrived on Grant's arm, she might have some influence with him. They certainly seemed intent on finding out.

  The first inquiries were casual, wanting to know how long she'd known Grant. These came from a couple of Republican members of the House who introduced themselves politely. They drifted away when she admitted she'd known him only a week.

  Realizing that wasn't going to get her anywhere, she pondered a different way to handle the inquiries. While doing so, she suddenly found herself face-to-face with Randall Youngblood.

  "Detective Sweeney, isn't it?" he asked. He was a handsome man with steel-gray hair, warm brown eyes and just a couple of extra pounds on him, softening what might otherwise have been a harshly-chiseled face. He looked, Karen thought, comfortable. Comfortable with himself and the world. Comfortable to be around. And he did not look the least bit out of place in a roomful of image-conscious people.

  "Just Karen, Mr. Youngblood," she responded promptly. "This is a social occasion."

  "Is it indeed?" He lifted a brow but didn't ask any questions, unlike the others, who seemed to want to know the depth, breadth and length of her relationship with Senator Lawrence.

  "Yes," she said firmly. "It is."

  "Good…good. That makes you the only person here just to have fun. The rest are here to see and be seen."

  She smiled. "That's what I was told."

  "It's the price we all pay. They need to see and be seen, I just need to be here in case I can be useful."

  "In what ways are you useful?"

  "Oh," he said with a self-deprecating chuckle, "I'm a font of facts and information. If someone needs that during one of their conversations this evening, I can be summoned."

  Karen nodded. "Why do I think you're more important than that?"

  He shrugged. "You flatter me. But since the issue of the day is S.R. 52, which is sponsored by your friend Grant Lawrence, then I have to be present. Sort of like a human file cabinet."

  "I see." She smiled again, hoping she looked suitably impressed. "What kind of facts are you providing?"

  "Just the true impact of S.R. 52 in terms of economic and personal losses."

  "That's very important."

  "I like to think so. You know, you and I have something in common."

  "What's that?"

  He touched her upper arm lightly, briefly. Just a momentary contact that might have worked to create a feeling that they were in this together if she had not been a cop. Touch didn't work on her the way it worked on most people. On her, it worked as a threat.

  "Well," he said, "not to put too fine a point on it, we both work to prevent crime. Different kinds of crime, but crime nonetheless."

  How very interesting, Karen thought, while she nodded as if agreeing. Very interesting that he saw the senator's bill as a crime. She decided to pry into that perception a little further. "And of course, there's self-defense."

  His face lit with a broad smile. "See, we do understand each other. If the law can't protect us, then we must protect ourselves. Legally, of course."

  "Of course." But the reference to legality had sounded tacked on, an afterthought. Her heart quickened a little as she wondered just what lengths this man might go to in order to defeat the bill.

  "Are you at all familiar with the bill?" he asked her.

  "Only vaguely. Very vaguely." Which wasn't true. Since the murder of Abigail Reese, she'd made it a point to learn everything about S.R. 52 that she could.

  "Well, let me tell you a bit about it."

  She gave him a nod, trying to look ingenuous, and he was off and running. The interesting thing to her, though, was that he'd hardly said five words before others clustered around to listen to him hold forth. Under cover of listening to him, Karen watched the faces around her, trying to pick out those who agreed wholeheartedly, those who were indifferent and those who disagreed with him.

  "Let me begin by saying that I care about the environment as much as anyone," Youngblood said. "I'm a farmer by birth, a cane grower. And I can speak for all my fellow farmers when I say that we care about the environment, if for no other reason than that agriculture demands a healthy environment. You won't
find a farmer or an agribusinessman anywhere who doesn't care about the environment."

  "Hear, hear," said a couple of voices. Karen made note of their faces so she could find out later who they were.

  "You see," Youngblood went on, appearing to speak only to Karen, although she had no doubt he was aware of all the others gathering round him, "we can't exist without a healthy environment."

  "I can see that," she said, to encourage him to move forward.

  "We bust our backsides, literally, to return to the soil everything we take out of it. That's what fertilizers do, you know. They simply revive soil that would otherwise become spent."

  "That," the familiar voice of Grant Lawrence intruded, "is a bit of an exaggeration, Randall. Or rather, an understatement."

  Youngblood smiled at the senator, as if they were the oldest of friends, but the smile never reached his eyes and couldn't quite conceal a flicker of displeasure. "And that was a confusing statement, Senator."

  Grant eased closer until he was beside Karen, facing Youngblood. "What I mean is, farmers don't only replenish the soil. You use fertilizers to enhance the soil, increase your per-acre yields. The excess runs off. And it's that excess that S.R. 52 addresses."

  "Well," said Youngblood, his voice as calm and confident as if the subject under discussion were the weather, "I suppose that depends on what you mean by enhancement. After all, increasing crop yields is essential to this country."

  A number of heads nodded in agreement.

  "He's right," said a short but lean man with a pleasant face. "I don't know if you remember me, Senator, but I'm Representative Bill Olafsen, from Nebraska."

  "Of course I remember you, Bill." Grant extended his hand with a warm smile, and Olafsen shook it. "It's been a while, but I remember when we sort of put our heads together on the grain support issue."

  "Right." Olafsen actually looked mildly flattered that he was remembered. But flattered or not, he was undeterred. "The farmers, my people, my constituents, are enhancing the soil. No two ways about it. But neither they nor I are going to apologize for it. America wants cheap food, and plenty of it. Most of my farmers are barely making a living on the acreage they have, and they'd go under if their crop yields fell. But maybe that sounds like a selfish issue to you."