by Rachel Lee
"…Georgie," he said. He let out a mirthless chuckle. "She wanted to be at home here, among the power elite. I didn't. Or maybe I did and didn't want to admit it. But Tampa was home. The house, the girls. Then she died, and…Tampa wasn't so much home anymore. I had the girls up here for summers, even when we were on recess. Georgie had always wanted this to be her city…our city…and it only became my city after she died."
He looked into her eyes for a moment. They were skeptical, probing eyes, yes, but they could also be full of so much kindness. At moments like this, for example. Perhaps it was the dilation of the pupils in the dim nighttime light that made them seem so much greener. Or perhaps the flecks of green grew when her mind softened and she wasn't in cop mode.
"Your eyes change color, you know."
She glanced away, as if unsure what to say next. When she looked back, the moment had passed. "So where are we walking to, Senator? That's Georgetown Park, across the street. That's where I found the dress."
"We're going right down that alley," he said. "Do you like the blues?"
* * *
Blues Alley was virtually an institution in a city full of institutions. Karen had heard of it, but somehow she'd expected something…else. What it was, was a smallish stage surrounded by a relative handful of tables, all taken, with a bar along one wall. The bar stools were also taken. There was nowhere to sit, and within five minutes, she didn't care.
Her mind was lost in the patient moans of a tenor sax, backed by a piano, a real bass fiddle and a drummer who played with dexterity and discretion. The song's vocals—a quiet, respectful rendition of Louis Armstrong's "What a Wonderful World"—had been little more than preamble to the sax solo, which conjured, better than words ever could, skies of blue and trees of green. No one danced. No one talked. There was nothing but the sax, and the band, and a world where, no matter what hardships lay at hand, one could find only wonder. The word "evocative" had been created for moments like this.
Karen hadn't realized she was pressed against Grant, intimacy born of necessity in the crowded room, until she felt him swaying to the music. She swayed with him, and it was as if they were leaves on one of those green trees, under that blue sky, caressed by the warmth of a summer breeze flowing through the music.
She should have been uncomfortable. She should have been thinking about the case, and the tangled skeins of motives and agendas. She should have been wondering who would think so little of human life as to slash the throat of Abby Reese or dispose of Nat Olson like so many old leftovers. She should have, at the very least, been asking herself what possible point there could be in hitching her heart to a star whose background and ambitions were so far from her own. She should have been.
Instead, she was lost in the moment, swaying beside him, their hands somehow having become entwined, the mixed odors of beer, wine and liquor transformed into the bloom of hyacinth and heather, daisy and daffodil, leaf and loam. It was, she tried to tell herself, just a tenor sax and a piano, a bass fiddle and a drummer, a Washington blues bar and a Washington politician, a man for whom charm and charisma were stock in trade.
Enjoy the moment for what it is, she thought. She had hoped the thought would be rational, clearheaded, a wedge of pure, cold logic biting in to cleave an emotional spell. Instead, it, too, was swallowed into the spell. It was…permission. She tucked herself a bit closer to him and let herself squeeze his hand. He squeezed back. And they swayed on.
For a few hours she didn't have to be a cop, swimming in the worst of human ugliness. And he didn't have to be a politician, scheming to mate principle and possibility. For a few hours she could simply be a woman in the company of a man, swaying to the music of the blues, not dissecting, not analyzing, not predicting. Just…being.
Enjoy the moment for what it is, she thought.
And she did. For a few hours.
* * *
The band was in its last set when the throbbing in Grant's knee pushed its way past distant discomfort to intolerable. He didn't want to leave. They'd promised a reprise of "What a Wonderful World," and he wanted to hear it again. But his knee wouldn't let him. He squeezed Karen's hand to get her attention.
She seemed to read the situation in his face. "Your knee?"
He nodded. "I don't want to go."
"It's okay," she said.
They slipped back into the night. He tried to keep his stride even. It was a discipline he'd developed in high school, not wanting to be seen as the cripple. Most of the time he could keep the limp down to imperceptible. But tonight the knee was too sore, and he could feel the ungainliness in his step.
"You're really hurting," she said. "You should have said something earlier."
"I didn't realize I'd had too much until I'd…had too much."
She laughed. It was a beautiful laugh, light and delicate, but at the same time sincere and hearty. "That's how I am with Godiva chocolates," she said.
"This was…nice, Karen. I needed to be away."
"Yes, it was. And so did I."
He could still feel the way her body had melded into his. "You're nice to be away with."
"So are you, Senator."
"Grant," he said.
"Grant," she echoed.
They were back in front of the restaurant, where his car had acquired that ubiquitous bit of Washington litter, a parking ticket.
"I forgot to feed the meter when we went for a walk," he said sheepishly.
"I wouldn't worry about it. You are a senator, after all."
He shook his head. "In any other town, that might matter. It won't here. Besides, I parked illegally. So I'll pay the twenty dollars."
"Expensive parking."
"You're worth it," he heard himself say.
He hadn't meant to say it. Certainly hadn't meant to say it that way. It had been a lovely evening, and for the first time in a long time, he'd felt peace. But he couldn't afford to look at it as anything more than what it had been…a lovely interlude, a needed respite.
She rescued him.
"Well, I'm glad to know I'm worth twenty bucks," she said with a mischievous wink.
His hand found hers again. "Thank you for a wonderful night, Karen."
"Thank you, Grant."
"Do you need a ride back to your hotel?"
She shook her head, her eyes never leaving his. "I'll catch a cab. You need to get home and get that knee up."
"It's no bother…."
She smiled. It was a wistful smile. "It's better this way, Grant. Go rest your knee. I'll catch a cab."
He wanted to lean forward just that tiny bit he would need to for a good-night kiss. While they'd swayed to the music, he had actually thought about whether he should kiss her, and how. A gentle brush on the cheek. A thank-you. But now, at the moment of truth, looking into those pale, green-flecked, wistful eyes, he balked.
He gave her hand a squeeze.
"Good night, Karen Sweeney."
She squeezed back. "Good night, Grant Lawrence."
Then she released her hand and turned, lifting an arm to hail a taxi, which arrived with maddening timing.
"See you tomorrow," she said, as she climbed into the cab.
"Yes," he said.
And then she was gone, whisked away into the night.
He climbed into his car, groaning as he flexed his knee, turned the key in the ignition, put the car in gear and headed for an empty town house.
* * *
The red message light was blinking as Karen stepped into her room and closed the door. The maid had turned down the covers, even putting a mint on her pillow, yet the room that had felt almost homey that afternoon was sterile tonight. That afternoon she'd been a cop on a case. Tonight she was a woman, alone in a hotel room in a strange city. She picked up the receiver and pressed the message code.
"Turn on your cell phone," Previn's voice said.
That was odd. It should have been on. She pulled it out of her purse and opened it. Pressed the power button. No respo
nse. The battery was dead. Maybe there was a God, she thought. A God who had killed her cell phone battery so she could enjoy an evening away from the job.
She plugged in the recharger and set it on the nightstand. Then, in a silent act of defiance, she moved it to the desk across the room. A shower and sleep were the only business she intended to attend to. Previn, you'll have to wait till morning….
The room phone rang.
…or not.
"Hello?"
"Turn your phone on, Sweeney." Previn.
"It was on," she said. "The battery's dead. So what's so important that you're calling me at," she glanced at the clock—could it really be this late?—"one-fifteen in the morning?"
"We've got a problem. I'm looking at a black-and-white photo, which arrived in a plain manila envelope, addressed to your attention, unsigned, no return address, no prints."
"And this is a photo of?" she asked impatiently.
"Grant Lawrence. Walking through what looks like a park. Hand-in-hand with Stacy Wiggins."
16
The line hummed emptily for a few seconds as Karen absorbed what Previn had just told her. She took a deep breath. This was the precipice. She would be risking her career, and Previn's. But it was the right call. She hoped.
Then she said flatly, "Bury it."
"Karen! My God, you can't…"
"Bury it," she said again, her voice as taut as a violin string. "Bury it. Put it somewhere no one else will see it."
"But…"
"Listen to me, Dave. Just listen. That photo doesn't prove a damn thing except that a widower dated a woman who has since been murdered."
"On the same night as his housekeeper? Karen, are you out of your mind?"
She paused, seeking inner stability, fighting for it. "Dave, just keep listening. It's enough that you and I know about that photo for now. It may be completely harmless. It may be that Lawrence had nothing whatever to do with these two deaths. It may be that someone who is after him killed both women. You follow?"
"I follow."
"After all, what does that photo say? Only that someone is after his ass."
Previn made a muffled sound, as if he weren't happy.
"Dave, I'm not asking you to destroy evidence. I'm asking you to bury it until we find out whether it's relevant and what it means. Because we don't want to destroy this man's career if he's innocent."
Again the line hummed with emptiness. But finally Previn said, "Okay. Okay. You're right. If someone did all this to ruin him, we don't want to help."
Karen let out a sigh of relief. "Exactly. Where are you, and where is the photo? Did you show anyone?"
"Hell no, this is our case. Give me credit for some sense. I figured if anyone else saw that pic, we'd be off the case in a snap. Shit like that makes headlines."
"Good. Are you at the station?"
"I'm at my apartment." The apartment he had just moved into after separating from his wife.
"Where's the photo?"
"With me. I didn't want anybody scoping it till I'd talked to you." He sounded almost ashamed.
"I'm proud of you, Dave," Karen assured him. "I'm really proud of you. A lot of people forget, but part of our job is to avoid damaging the innocent."
"If he's innocent."
Her heart thudded. "Yeah. If. Hide it in the back of your closet or something. I want to think about this."
"Okay. But don't keep me out of your cogitations. I feel like I'm holding a red-hot potato."
Karen was shaking like a leaf when she hung up the phone. And then the rage began.
* * *
"What the hell is going on, Michaels?"
It was late, very late. Randall Youngblood had just come back to the office after an evening spent buying dinner for men he didn't like, in order to have time to explain to them why S.R. 52 would be bad law. Too keyed up to go straight home, he'd decided to go through his inbox and see what tomorrow would hold. He wished he hadn't.
"What do you mean, sir?" Michaels asked sleepily.
Randall had awoken him. That was just fine. "I'm looking at a photo of Grant Lawrence holding hands with some woman in a park. Why is this in my inbox? Who is she?"
There was a rustling on the other end of the line, soon accompanied by a woman's sleepy moan. "It's okay, honey," Michaels said quietly. "It's Youngblood. Go back to sleep." Then, "I don't know, sir. I didn't send you any photos. Is the envelope still there?"
"It came in a courier pouch. The return address is our office down there. I assumed you'd sent it. Unless you have…someone else working on this."
"No, sir. You said to keep it close, and I have. Was there anything else in the envelope, sir? A note?"
"No note," Randall said. "Let me check the back of the photo. Maybe there's…there's a date, last fall, and a woman's name. Stacy Wiggins. Does that name mean anything to you?"
"Give me a moment, sir." More rustling, followed by the sound of a door being drawn closed. The beep of a computer powering up. The clacking of keys. "I'm checking the news database, sir. How is the name spelled?"
Randall spelled it for him. More clacking of keys. "What have you got, Michaels?"
Michaels summarized as he read. "There was a small story in the Tampa Tribune last week. Dead woman identified. Owned a dance studio. Body found in an alley, brutally murdered…hold on, sir. Let me check my calendar." There was a pause. "Holy shit."
"What?" Randall asked, growing impatient.
"Sir, Stacy Wiggins was murdered on the same night as Abby Reese. Lawrence's nanny."
"I know who she was," Randall said. "I went to the interment. So Lawrence had, at least once, seen some woman who was later murdered. Coincidence."
"Murdered on the same night?"
"Weirder things have happened."
Michaels made an impatient sound. "Sir, what are the odds that two people known by Lawrence would be murdered on the same night? Found within a relatively short time of one another?"
"It's still not proof."
"We know Lawrence has manipulated a police investigation in the past, sir."
Randall felt his stomach begin to burn. "Just what kind of manipulation are you suggesting? You surely can't mean that he killed those women."
"Of course not. But someone did. Maybe in an attempt to get at him. That's not what matters. What matters is that Lawrence knows both of these women are dead. And if he hasn't apprised the police of his connection to both of them, then he's obstructing a police investigation."
Randall's stomach turned so sour that he started hunting in a drawer for a bottle of antacids. "We don't know that. For all we know the cops already know about the connection and are keeping it private."
"That may be. The point is, sir, that we now know. And if we keep it a secret, we're also obstructing an investigation."
"Christ." Randall slammed the bottle of antacids on his desk with so much force that the plastic cracked. "You know, Michaels, you haven't seemed to grasp something very important about me. There are lines I won't cross."
"I've grasped it, sir. But concealing evidence is surely a line you don't want to cross."
"I also don't want to skewer Lawrence. We've got nothing here that proves he did a single thing wrong."
"Well, sir, if we don't act on this information, someone else will. And they might also point out that you knew about it and kept silent. Besides, if you want to talk about what's in the best interests of this country, then you have to consider what it would mean to have a man in the White House who's already been involved in two cover-ups."
"We only know of one," Randall said. But he was weakening. And starting to feel angry that he could have been so mistaken in the character of Grant Lawrence.
"Take care of it, Michaels," he said finally, propelled by a sense of outrage.
"I will. And I'll be certain your name isn't involved."
When Randall hung up, he found himself wishing he could go back to being a simple cane grower, where all he had t
o worry about were the vagaries of Mother Nature.
* * *
Karen forced herself to calm down. It took a while. Seldom had she experienced anger so strong it nearly blinded her. Unlike some people, however, anger didn't clear her head, it clouded it. The objectivity she had learned as a cop was impossible to find tonight.
She had to settle for putting her anger in the background, far enough back in her mind that she could think past her sense of betrayal, her feelings of disappointment and, worst of all, the dirty feeling of being used.
She had, she reminded herself, no proof that Grant Lawrence was using her in any way. No pressure had been applied to her. It had been her idea to come to Washington, not his.
Besides, he had been in Washington when both murders were committed. Yes, her mind was getting clearer. She was overlooking essential elements in this case.
Grant had been in Washington. There was no reason why he would have murdered the nanny he had loved all his life. On the other hand, if Stacy Wiggins had been threatening him in some way…
She shook her head, fighting for clarity again.
No, that was the wrong path. Stacy Wiggins hadn't been the threat. Someone else was. Someone who had sent that photograph to her. Someone who had arranged for a "car accident" and reporters to be on the scene.
Someone who was trying to destroy any hope of the presidency for Grant.
But was that worth two murders?
Picking up the phone, she called room service. She needed coffee.
Okay. She opened her suitcase and pulled out a legal pad to work on. What did she know? What did she suspect? Why had that photo turned up now and not right after reports of Stacy's murder appeared in the papers. Or even before Stacy had been identified? That would have seemed even more incriminating.
Stop. List only the facts she knew for certain.
Abby Reese had been swiftly murdered, apparently as a result of startling an intruder in the Lawrence home.
The senator's home filing cabinets had been pried open, but nothing taken.
Stacy Wiggins' murder was totally unlike Abby Reese's. Its savagery suggested a huge anger. Given that the senator had apparently had some kind of relationship with her, he would be an obvious suspect…except that he'd been in Washington.