With Malice

by Rachel Lee

  "Almost two weeks," Karen said.

  "Okay, so it was a while before he found out. And the two murders were very different, and the bodies were found across town from each other. Sure, you and I get our antennas waggling because they were on the same night and he's the connection between them, but from his viewpoint, there's nothing to connect them except that he knew and loved both of them. So why should he bring it up?"

  "So as not to obstruct an investigation."

  Terry nodded and took a bit of horseradish-slathered egg. His eyes watered while he chewed and swallowed. He didn't bother with a sip of water. "That's the way it looks to us. We're cops. But he's a politician. He thinks differently. He has to. He's gotta wonder whether airing the dirty linen will be good for anyone at all, including himself. He's in a precarious position. This comes out and maybe he can kiss off the presidency."

  "You approve of him hiding it?" Karen couldn't believe it.

  Terry's face stiffened a bit. "Did I say that? I know I didn't say that. If he knew the dancer was dead on the same night as the nanny and he didn't come forward with it, then he was wrong. Plain wrong. But I can understand where it came from, and I'm not going to make it a federal case. What's the point?"

  Karen couldn't even think of a reply.

  "You, on the other hand," Terry continued after another mouthful of egg, "don't see it that way. You don't like compromises."

  "Not compromises like this."

  "Right. What's more, you're getting sweet on him."

  "I am not!"

  Terry just laughed quietly, shook his head and started on his second egg. "Keep your feelings out of it, Karen. Don't let yourself get sweet on him, 'cuz it might make you too angry to see the truth."

  "Truth? There's hardly any truth in this whole case."

  "Oh, there's truth, all right. Two women are dead, killed in entirely different ways, and you think it might have been the dance studio partner because she had a crush on the deceased."

  "It's a possibility."

  "Everything's a possibility, and that's where you're going wrong."

  "How do you mean?"

  "You're limiting the possibilities, Karen."

  Her spine stiffened, primarily because she was good at thinking outside the box, not going for the obvious when there were other possibilities. She almost said something, then bit the words back. Terry had a lot more experience than she did. Maybe she was missing something.

  Terry smiled at her as if he'd read her reaction, but he didn't say anything about it. "Step back a minute," he suggested. "I'm coming into this case fresh. Pretend you are, too. Now, let's start with the murders themselves. They say a lot. The dancer was strangled and mutilated. You say she was a strong woman."

  "Yes."

  "And there were signs of struggle."

  "Carpet burns. Some flesh under her fingernails."

  "Right. So whoever subdued her had to be stronger. Her partner isn't likely to be that much stronger than she was."

  Karen hesitated. "Maybe."

  He let that pass. "Regardless, that murder was an act of rage. Male rage. Women don't kill like that."

  Karen's head snapped up. "There's always a first time."

  "A jealous woman usually resorts to a gun. Or she'll do it while the vic's asleep. Nothing physical. Nothing mutilating. Just as quick and clean as she can make it without getting herself into a fight. Poison or gun. And this was neither."

  "Okay. I'll accept that."

  He smiled again. "So we're looking at a murder that was probably committed by a man. A very angry man. A very disturbed man."

  She nodded, seeing where he was headed.

  "Now, we also have the murder, the same night, of the nanny." He washed down the last of his egg with coffee. "Given that both victims are linked to the same man and that both occurred the same night, my guess is they were committed by the same perp, despite the difference in modus. I think you're right that the nanny was an unintended victim. I'll bet you both murders happened in the same house, probably in the same room. That's the intruder Abby confronted when she came downstairs. The killer probably figured that, with Lawrence and the girls up here in D.C., Abby would have taken some time away with family or friends. Didn't even expect her to be there."

  Karen nodded. "If they were killed in the same room, there would be transfers. Blood, trace evidence. I'll tell Previn to have the lab check."

  "You said the body was moved. You picked up on that right away."

  "Yes," Karen said. "But that raises another question. Who moved Wiggins' body? I mean, if someone wanted to bury the senator, why not leave the body in the house, where it would be found?"

  He paused for a long moment, his eyes darkening. "That's an ugly question, you know. There are only two possible answers. Either the perp loaded the dancer's blood-soaked body into his car, to make it look like the senator was trying to cover it up, or…"

  "…or Grant Lawrence had it moved," she said. "And that goes beyond just keeping quiet when he might have told us about the connection. That's felony obstruction."

  * * *

  Grant stepped out his front door, made his way to the podium and looked out at the reporters. Their eyes were focused, cold and hard. He wasn't comfortable with a press conference held on his front lawn, but Jerry had insisted. Addressing it here, at his home, was symbolic: this was a personal issue, not a political one. The two would be linked, of course, but there was no reason to encourage that linkage by having the press conference at his office or on the Capitol steps. Jerry was right, of course. Still, Grant was uneasy about drawing attention in the presence of his neighbors. There would be suspicious looks every time he ventured out of the house. But that would probably have happened anyway.

  "I'm going to make a statement, and then I'll take questions." He drew a breath and continued. "Yes, I knew Stacy Wiggins. Yes, we had dated. For several months. We met when she volunteered in my Tampa office. My wife had died six months before. We talked."

  He felt as if he were betraying her memory and the time they'd shared by talking about it this way. She deserved more than to be discussed and dissected with clinical detachment.

  "Stacy was a marvelous woman. I loved her. Yes, she was an exotic dancer when we met, although I never saw her dance. Not that way. I did see her with her students, after she opened her studio. To watch her move was poetry. And she brought out that poetry in the young girls she taught. She was a wonderful teacher, dedicated and vivacious, and I'm sure her students miss her."

  They were writing. What his words would look like after they'd rearranged them was another issue. And their responsibility.

  "Stacy and I dated for just over a year. Over time, the relationship evolved into a deep friendship. As for the romantic side, we parted by mutual agreement. But we remained friends. I miss her."

  He paused to draw breath, fighting within himself to quiet his emotions, to be calm and…presidential…when his grief ached to pour out. He would not wear his heart on his sleeve.

  "We hadn't seen each other for about three months. I'd been busy here in Washington, and I'm sure she was busy with her students. I was…shocked…to hear of her death. It was brutal and tragic. The world was robbed of an amazing woman, who would have, I'm sure, blessed many lives for many years. She certainly blessed mine."

  His face hardened. "It pains and angers me to have to explain, defend and justify what Stacy and I shared. That there are those who would use her death for political gain is…unconscionable. The country deserves better. The voters deserve better. But most of all, Stacy Wiggins deserves better. She was a human being, not a pawn on a political chessboard. And so, to those who are inclined to exploit this vicious act, I say this. Respect this great country. Respect the voters. And pay to Stacy Wiggins the respect that is due any human being, the respect you would want paid if she were your daughter, your sister, your wife. She earned that.

  "Thank you. Now I'll take your questions."

  * * *r />
  Sitting in Terry's office, listening on the radio, Karen thought it had been a heartfelt speech. She doubted anyone else, besides Terry, had noticed the slight pause when Grant had talked about learning of her death. The pause, for her, had been pregnant with meaning. He had known. She fought down her anger and listened.

  "Senator, when did you learn that Ms. Wiggins was dead?"

  He had prepared for that question. "The police identified the body about a week ago. I read it in the newspaper."

  That was true, albeit incomplete and misleading. But there was no reason to dive on his sword.

  "Is it true that you financed her dance studio?"

  Again, that had been expected. While the money trail had been discreet, by mutual agreement and for mutual benefit, he hadn't doubted the capacity of inquiring minds.

  "Yes, I did. That happened about three months into our relationship. She had too much potential, as a dancer and as a woman, to waste herself in a strip club. She hated it, and hated herself for doing it. Having a dance studio was…her dream. I wanted to make that dream possible, and I was in a position to do that."

  "How long did you continue dating after she opened the studio?"

  "About six months. If you're asking whether she used me to get money, let me simply say that I didn't feel used. Not before. Not after. Not since."

  "Did you use money to get her?"

  "That question took some big cojones," Terry remarked.

  "It's the one everyone is asking," Karen answered. It was one she was asking herself. Did this man use everyone?

  "Stupid question," was Terry's opinion. "That man don't need to buy any woman. Anything he wants is ripe for the plucking."

  Including me. With effort, Karen dragged her attention back to the interview. Grant was speaking.

  * * *

  "…insult Ms. Wiggins and you insult me with that question. Once again, I did not know Ms. Wiggins was an exotic dancer when I met her and did not find out about it until we'd dated a few times. At that point we had grown close enough that she trusted me with the information. My immediate response was to find a way to make that line of work unnecessary for her."

  "Charity?" sneered a voice.

  "You know, Bob," Grant said, recognizing the reporter, "if you check my financial statements, you'll find I give a great deal to charity every year. What I offered Stacy Wiggins was a mere drop in the bucket, especially as she and her business partner had saved up quite a bit already toward the dance school. All I did was make the dream immediately possible."

  "Kind of convenient this happened on the eve of your making a presidential bid."

  * * *

  Karen gasped at that.

  Terry looked at her. "Oh, they can get a lot nastier, Karen. They're trying to provoke him. You don't usually see that stuff on TV, though."

  * * *

  Grant gripped the podium tighter for a moment, then let the emotion pass into his carefully-calculated words. "Convenient? Convenient for whom? I certainly don't find this convenient. Nor have I announced any intention of seeking my party's nomination for the presidency."

  "Everyone knows you will."

  "Everyone knows more than I do, then. But my point is this. I knew that eventually I would have to explain my relationship with Stacy should I ever be foolish enough to run for the presidency. I knew I would have to explain it, just like I'm explaining it now. And her being killed didn't and wouldn't have prevented that."

  He paused, remembering all the times he and Stacy had talked about the secrecy, and her wishing they could be open in their relationship. "In fact, her death seems only to have made the explanations more difficult."

  I'm sorry, my darling friend, he thought. I'm sorry I could only acknowledge you after your death. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. That's all I have to say."

  * * *

  A chorus of shouting voices was followed swiftly by the announcer, telling everyone what they had just heard. Terry reached over and switched off the radio.

  "The vultures smell blood," he said with a shake of his head. "You better get out there and save the guy."

  "Save him?"

  "Do your job, Detective. And I'll help you."

  18

  Terry's belief that Grant wasn't such a bad guy at all did nothing to ease Karen's feelings of anger. She was going to talk to the senator, and very soon, but first she needed to call Previn.

  "The story's out," she told him. "He just held a news conference. It'll probably be all over the evening news."

  "Thank God," Previn said. "I don't like this shit."

  "Neither do I. I want you to get the lab to compare physical evidence and blood samples from both Reese and Wiggins."

  "What?"

  "I want to know if Wiggins was murdered in Lawrence's living room."

  "Jesus."

  "Just do it, Dave."

  "I will. But…maybe I better tell Simpson what's coming down. Or he's going to wonder if we're asleep at the wheel when he sees the news tonight."

  "Okay. But tell him I told you about the relationship. The photo came to me after all. I don't want you on the hook for the delay in us bringing this out."

  "Believe me, I won't be. Okay, I'll bring him up to date. And I'll pretend I just found out."

  "Fair enough, Dave. You have enough trouble on your plate right now."

  "No kidding. Hell, I'll pretend we just found out. Who's gonna know?"

  When Karen hung up the phone, she stared at it as if it might bite her.

  Terry spoke, his voice rumbling deeply and lazily. "It would be interesting to know who circulated that photo."

  "The press doesn't like to ask or answer those questions."

  "Depends," said Terry.

  "On what?"

  "On what you've got on 'em."

  She swiveled the chair and looked at him. "Meaning?" But she had a good idea what he meant.

  "Just leave it to me, Sweeney. There are some things you don't need to know about the underside of D.C. You're going home, after all."

  "I want to know."

  He cocked his head and studied her. "I don't like to burn a source. You're not exactly low profile."

  She almost flushed, remembering that terrible photo of herself and Grant after the accident.

  "It's time," said Terry, "for us to split. You go beard Lawrence in his den, and later tonight I'll get to my source."

  "Why should I beard Grant?"

  "Because you're dying to. And because you need to. For the case. For yourself."

  * * *

  "We've got him," Michaels said. "We caught the son of a bitch red-handed."

  "Maybe," Randall answered. "If he made a mistake. If he didn't, we just smeared an innocent man, a decent man, over a very personal part of his life. If he didn't, we took something beautiful and made it ugly."

  "He did," Michaels said. "I could see it in his face. And this isn't about something legally irrelevant, like where his wife was coming from when she died. This time, he can't hide."

  Randall knew Michaels was probably right. But that didn't mean he had to like it. Or gloat over it. "Did I ever tell you how Lawrence and I met?"

  Michaels shook his head. "No, you didn't."

  "It was fifteen years ago," Randall said. "I was lobbying for the sugar growers, in Tallahassee, against a bill to tear down the Okeechobee dam and restore the Everglades to their original form."

  "Things haven't changed much," Michaels said, chuckling.

  "Haven't they? I hadn't hired you then. In fact, you'd have been what, sixteen, at the time?" Randall arched a brow to make his point.

  Michaels glanced down, then nodded. Good. He needed taking down a peg. Randall continued.

  "Grant Lawrence was in the state legislature at the time. Late twenties, first term, full of fire and drive. It was obvious he had a national future, even then. And he looked to be a key swing vote. So I went to see him. He was big on the environment from square one, but he wasn't one of the tre
e-hugging loons. I pitched him. I laid out what Everglades business meant to the state, financially, and in terms of ordinary farmers who'd spent the past forty years making their livings from reclaimed swampland."

  "You won him over?" Michaels asked.

  Randall shook his head. "No. He didn't like the bill, thought it asked for too much, too fast. But too much, too fast was better than too little, too late, he said. He agreed to vote against the bill, if and only if I'd agree to back a more reasonable measure in the next session. I said I couldn't promise that. I wasn't about to buy a pig in a poke. We shook hands, and I left his office. The bill eventually died in committee."

  "So you won after all."

  "You're missing the point," Randall said. "A month later, my wife died. Lawrence sent flowers and a card. I called him, to ask why. I was angry. She'd looked healthy when I left for Tallahassee. I got home after the session ended, and she had bruises on her arms and legs. We took her to the doctor. Leukemia. It tore through her like a forest fire. She was dead two weeks later. I told myself she had to have known she was sick and held it back, and it killed her. I blamed her. I blamed the doctors. Most of all, I blamed myself, for being too busy and preoccupied to notice."

  He pursed his lips, drew a breath. Steadied himself. "So I lit into Lawrence. 'What's in it for you? It's people like you who kept me away from my wife when she was sick. By the time you let me go back to her, she was too far gone.' What I said was ridiculous. Embarrassing. I let him have it for…must've been fifteen minutes. And you know what he said when I finished?"

  "I've no idea," Michaels said.

  "He said three words. 'You loved her.' I caught my breath. I was expecting him to hang up. Or tell me to go to hell. I'd have deserved that. He didn't. He just said those three words and went quiet. Finally I said 'Yes, I did.' He said 'Then don't be ashamed to grieve her.' And that night, after I hung up the phone, for the first time I got past my anger enough to cry."

  Michaels sat for a moment. Finally he spoke. "Okay, he's a nice guy. Everyone knows that. That doesn't mean S.R. 52 is a good bill. And it doesn't mean he deserves to be president."

  "Maybe not," Randall answered. "But next time you think about gloating over what's happening to him, try to show a little respect. He may be wrong about this bill. He may be the wrong man for the White House. But he's forgotten more about class than you'll ever know."