She marched up the Capitol atrium spiral stairs instead of taking the elevator. A troop of Girl Scouts passed her on their way down. It was warm in this old mausoleum and she was starting to sweat in her pea jacket.
She stopped at Hillman’s office. As usual, the waiting supplicants outnumbered the seating. The receptionist cast a reluctant eye, but said nothing as Rita proceeded to DeVane’s cubicle.
“Whipping up constituent pabulum?” Rita said to DeVane’s white-shirted back. He hunched over the keyboard; Christmas wreaths adorned his expensive white braces.
“Go away.” He didn’t turn around.
“I want a minute.”
“You’ve already had it.” DeVane kept typing.
“Look, I want to find out who killed a friend of mine. You knew him. He was a decent man,” Rita said.
DeVane stopped typing. After a moment, he turned around with a look of resignation. “What do you want?”
“Beware geeks bearing gifts,” Rita said. “I’ve been snooping contribution lists and looks like somebody’s wheeling in a Trojan horse.”
“Can you speak in less picturesque language?” DeVane shook his head. Dark circles under his eyes gave him a depraved look.
“I’m finding that a lot of the groups pumping money to support healthcare are actually subsidiaries of an umbrella organization with a very Spanish accent.” Rita rested her fists on DeVane’s desk and leaned into his face. “Comprende ?”
“Avoiding the limitations on foreign donation.” In spite of the dark circles, his eyes sparked to life.
“You’re a very quick boy,” Rita said.
“And you think Hillman?”
“I made no accusations. Just keep what I said in mind.” Rita started to leave, then bent back down.
“Are you Miriam Blalock?” She was almost nose-to-nose with him. She smelled his toothpaste.
“What are you talking about?’
“See you around,” she said and left.
The next office was Strutt’s. This time the receptionist got on the phone to security.
“How’s the case coming?” Randy Wyman asked when she appeared at his cubicle. He obviously got more sleep than his harried counterpart DeVane.
“Like an avalanche down Everest,” Rita said.
“Sounds dangerous.” Wyman leaned back in his chair.
“Going to be for some people, especially some people who are working on the healthcare bill.” Rita watched his eyes. They never blinked; they stared straight at her.
“In what way?”
Rita repeated what she’d told DeVane.
“Can’t be. The committee’s worked damned hard on this. It’s a good piece of legislation. It works. It helps a lot of people. It makes medical care affordable.” Wyman tapped the desk with his finger. “We’ve come too far to let some jerks torpedo this with stupidity.”
Rita shrugged. “Just an advisement.”
“I’m going to look into it immediately. You have my word,” Wyman promised. He stood up and offered his hand.
Rita took it. “Miriam Blalock.”
Wyman blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Let me know what you find,” she said.
♏
Rita liked this part of town where her office was. It was seedy enough to be out of public scrutiny—a must for clients insisting on discretion—but close enough to be on regularly patrolled streets. Of course, the mayor would have everyone believe that all streets were so well guarded. In this age of municipal economies though, it was the high bracket tax base and tourist areas that got real attention.
The problem here was parking. She had a space in a lot a block over, a block lined with shabby storefronts, cheap eateries, and dingy bars. During the day, heavy traffic kept danger at a distance, but at night opportunistic thieves and drunken brawlers ruled.
Rita preferred parking along the curb just outside her building, but tonight a dented pickup and an ancient Buick took up the two legal available spots. For an instant she considered parking illegally, but the fine was a cool one fifty. She also considered forgetting her mission to browse old newspaper files electronically for any past dirt on her Senatorial suspects.
She took a test spin around the block hoping that maybe one of the vehicles would have moved. No such luck. She wasn’t about to be paranoid about a half block of dark pavement either.
In the lot she waved to the elderly black man who barricaded himself into his warm lighted booth at night. He was asleep with an Orioles cap over his eyes and didn’t return her greeting. Rita surveyed the lot as she got out. It was a great spot for an ambush.
The wind was quiet tonight, but the cold was bitter. She pulled her pea coat collar around her cheeks while her breath streamed in clouds between the upturned lapels. Before starting for her office, she took another quick look around and patted the 9mm under her arm. She left her hand inside the coat with her hand on the butt.
A police paddy wagon rumbled along Calvert Street in no particular hurry. As she looked south, she saw the dancing lights of Baltimore’s Block, home of the topless dancer, the Swedish Bookstore, and every assortment of addictions and diseases imaginable.
To the north it was darker; street lamps dotted the deserted sidewalks. Much farther up, were the staid houses and perennial gardens of Guilford, but in this immediate area were warehouse docks and closed cafes. Two blocks up a cat slunk across the street.
Rita crossed Calvert and headed for the corner where her building was situated across from the courthouse. It was darker on this side of the street. One of the lamps was out. A stinking steamy wisp rose like swamp fog from a sewer grate.
“Hey.”
The sound made Rita jump. It was at her feet.
“Gotta quarter?” The words were almost indistinguishable.
She could barely make out the lump curled at the corner of the grate.
“Just need a quarter.”
Rita took a deep breath, reached into her overcoat pocket and tossed down a dollar.
“Thankee.” A claw-like hand squirmed over the sidewalk and retrieved the paper. Like an animal, it scurried back into its den.
Rita patted the butt of the Glock once more. The plastic handle was warm and reassuring.
At her building’s foyer door, Rita fumbled with the key. She had to take her hand off the gun in order to get the right key into position off her key ring. The lock turned and she entered. The only light was the green exit sign. The overhead was out.
She stepped on something crunchy. As soon as her loafers tread on it, she knew it for crushed glass. The overhead wasn’t burned out. Someone had smashed it.
Immediately she pivoted and reached for the glass door’s metal handle, but a strong gloved hand chopped her wrist.
“Fuck.” She jumped back, but could see only a big male figure in jeans and a ski jacket.
The man grabbed at her and she ducked. Her wrist ached with the force of the blow, but she jabbed her hand inside her coat for the Glock. As she did, the attacker punched her in the chest. She reeled as the blow knocked the wind out of her and she stumbled against the wall.
Rita sucked in oxygen. She had to stay conscious or she was dead. She spun away and made for the stairs. Having been in the building for over a year, she had a good sense of the place even in the dark, and she figured she had a better chance for safety if she could make it to her office. The attacker would surely have more trouble finding his way. It was the only hope as his body was between her and the outside door.
For a moment she was ahead of him, but he recovered quickly and was on her heels. She couldn’t pull the 9 mm and run at the same time. Her coat was still buttoned. To halt now was to throw herself into his hands.
She raced to the top of the stairs and, in the pitch darkness, threw herself on her back on the slick marble floor and launched herself backward. The attacker lost her immediately. As he ran up the steps, he couldn’t hear the wool coat sliding on the floor. He paused at the top.
In that moment Rita snatched the Glock from its holster, thrust it toward the stairwell and blasted off half a dozen rounds. Fire burst from the muzzle, but not enough light to illuminate her attacker.
Even as she fired, Rita inched along the wall and got herself into a standing position. When the roaring blast of the Glock quieted, she could hear herself panting. Saliva dripped from the corner of her mouth.
She didn’t know if she’d hit him or not, but she could hear rubber soled shoes pounding down the steps. She lurched toward the railing in time to see the man throw open the outside door and fly out.
“Jesus Christ,” she said to herself. “Jesus Christ.”
She leaned her back against the wall and let herself slide to the floor.
Chapter 32
Stalking moon. The cold white face peered from behind scudding billowed clouds. The eerie illumination made Rita recall black and white movies about werewolves.
The Jeep purred as Rita surveyed her house from the back driveway. Every light was out. Karin went to bed early but usually read herself to sleep. Even the guest room was dark. The fluorescent dial of Rita’s watch told her it was half past one.
She let the Jeep idle at the back door instead of pulling into the carport. She looked at her house and then on to the scattered farms who were her neighbors. It was a clean, solid sanctuary.
How many times as a child she’d ridden through such areas as these and yearned for the bright warmth that seemed to lie just behind the curtained panes. She pictured quiet respectful families around happy dinner tables. She imagined peaceful refuge in the lamplight.
Rita leaned back on the headrest. For a moment she closed her eyes, and in that darkness, transported herself to rooms of anger and shouting. She’d run away from there, but the ghosts followed wherever she went. Her hand reached for that battered chrome lighter in her pocket.
She opened her eyes. She didn’t want to be alone and the fear had to be spoken. It was her only hope for release from its hold. Rita made no effort to quiet the closing and locking of her back door.
“Who is it?” Karin’s voice was hesitant from the top of the dark stairway.
“Me.”
“Are you all right?” Karin hurried down the steps.
“I’m ok.” Rita stepped in from the biting November cold. In the warmth of the house, she felt her body tension diminish. Tears welled in her eyes.
“What happened?” Karin seized Rita by the shoulders. Light shown down only from the mercury light on the barn. The rest of the house remained dark.
“An unexpected guest at the office.” As she stood there, Rita fidgeted. “Look, I’m sorry that I woke you up at this ungodly hour.”
“I’m making coffee.” Karin marched toward the kitchen.
Rita followed. “You have to get up early.”
“You have to tell me what happened.” Karin flicked the lights in the kitchen. “Fill the coffeemaker—and start talking.”
Rita did as she was told. “I told you about the regular Mormon Tabernacle Choir of suspects I have.”
Karin nodded as she pulled a glass container from the freezer.
“Well, I subscribe to the theory that people don’t suddenly do something out of character, like rob a bank or kill their mother.”
“Yes, precedents of some sort usually crop up.” Karin measured coffee from the freezer container into the coffeemaker.
“So anyway, I was going to surf through computer files keying on the names of the healthcare committee senators and staff to see if I could dig up any previous dirt—other than Pete DeVane’s little gambling faux pas. I got to my office and the building foyer was pitch black. I thought the light was burned out, but when I stepped on broken glass, I knew somebody had broken it. I started to backtrack in a big hurry, but some big dude whacked my hand off the door handle.” Rita felt her mouth go dry again as she told the story.
“Oh my God.” Karin put her hand to her mouth. “How did you get away?”
Rita relayed the problem of the topcoat buttoned over her shoulder holster and how she’d made her dash up the stairs, and the subsequent raking of the stairwell with 9 mm shells.
“You called the police?” The coffee was finished, but Karin made no move to pour.
Rita turned her back and reached into the cabinet for cups. “They could tell me nothing.” She walked to the coffeemaker.
Karin grabbed her arm. “You can’t just set yourself up as a target like this.”
“Look, this may be the only way to draw this guy out.”
“This may be the way you end up like Bobby Ellis and what good is that?” Karin’s voice was stern.
Rita stared at her. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you angry.”
“I don’t want to see you dead because of some heroic Rambo notions you’re entertaining.”
“I do NOT have any Rambo ideas,” Rita banged the counter and the coffee cups rattled.
“Then what are you doing?” Karin’s voice lowered to a strong steady level.
Rita paused. “I’ll call somebody.” She faced the coffeemaker and focused on pouring.
“I know how much this case means to you. But throwing yourself in the path of the train isn’t going to make it stop.” Karin took a cup from Rita.
“Nobody could really protect me anyway,” Rita mumbled as she joined Karin at the kitchen table.
“Mary Margaret offered to help, didn’t she?” Karin asked.
“I’ll talk to her tomorrow.” Rita gulped her coffee and burned the roof of her mouth.
♏
In the morning, the office was silent, offering no hint of the previous night’s violence. Cautiously, Rita peered through the door before she entered. No signs of search as there had been from the last such intrusion.
She figured that her assailant had had enough after her shooting and did not return last night. She went inside and turned up the thermostat. This November morning was brutal, icy with a steady raw rain. Bev had a gown fitting and was coming in late.
Rita hated grey days like this when she had to be in the office. With the granite building and the pale blue paint, the interior seemed dingy like the inside of a cell. She flicked on the fluorescent lights to brighten up the place.
In front of the computer, Rita shook the rain off her parka and tossed it across her visitor’s chair. Then she snapped on her computer and flipped the lid on her large coffee—extra cream and sugar—while the machine booted. She’d brought in a supply of doughnuts for her quest through the electronic jungle.
The first name Rita keyed into her newspaper files was Miriam Blalock. Might as well, she thought, just to double check, though she was certain the name was an alias for Bobby’s Capitol Hill source. No matches.
Rita sighed and typed in Charles Strutt’s name. Bingo, she assembled hundreds of matches. He was a senator, what did she expect? One by one she scanned the news files that mentioned his name.
Ok, so she now had a profile of the man’s complete career. He’d started making headlines at twelve when he became an Eagle Scout—he’d obviously had an eye for good press even as a kid. He’d received a scholarship from his state delegate when it was time for college—Kate must have been right about his scholastic tendencies. The scholarship was a political perk and had no connection to intellectual ability.
On and on Rita scrolled through the electronic files. The three doughnuts were gone. The last of the coffee was a cold, sugary ooze. At the last file which included Strutt’s current status and a quote on the healthcare legislation, Rita ended the search with a keystroke and sat back to rub her eyes.
She had many more names on her list. She crossed off Strutt, the dumb but devoted elected official who’d had not so much as a parking ticket that made the news. From the things she’d read, she decided he wasn’t a candidate for murderer.
It took several hours, but Rita went through the newspaper files on each of the senator suspects on the healthcare committee. Not one i
tem she uncovered would have made her think twice about digging deeper into their pasts. She had a headache and her eyes watered.
“Smooth, it’s me.” Rita tapped her pen on the desktop as she talked.
“How’s the Ellis case going?”
Rita hesitated. “Slow.”
“Any leads at all? Find that Miriam Blalock broad?”
“Uh, yeah. It’s an alias, somebody on the Hill who was Bobby’s source.” Rita drew X’s on her notepad and walled them into a box.
“Somebody who may have wanted him out of the way after a while?” Mary Margaret asked.
“That’s my guess. I’m thinking that either Bobby found something about the source or that Bobby’s murder was a warning for the talker to keep his mouth shut.” Rita drew bars down the boxes.
“You had any trouble since the break-in at your house?”
Rita paused. “No, nothing.” She stabbed the pen into the center of the notepad.
“Better keep a sharp eye out though. If he killed one person, another’s no big deal. Whoever it is has a big stake in keeping things quiet.”
“Yeah.”
“Want me to call one of my trooper buddies?”
“No, Smooth. I’m fine. I’ll let you know if the situation heats up though.” Rita gritted her teeth on the lie.
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“Swear to God,” Rita said. “On my Catholic honor.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s good,” Mary Margaret snorted. “You’re not Catholic and you called Jean Paul II, the Pontoon.”
Rita smiled. “Hey, if the shoe fits . . .”
“Don’t play with this, Rita. I can’t take another funeral right now.”
“You know me, Smooth.”
“All too well, my girl.”
“I’ve got it all planned,” said Rita. “We’re gonna rock together on the front porch of the old folks’ home.”
“Just remember that,” Mary Margaret said.
“How could I ever forget?”
Chapter 33
DRIVEN: A Rita Mars Thriller Page 25