Looker

by Michael Kilian

  “Thanks for the beers.” Lanham paused at the door. “What time will your friend be in his office?”

  “Certainly by nine.”

  “I’ll be back here at eight. We’ll get there early. And I hope you’re not feeling any more wanderlust. All that the D.C. coppers know about you is that you’re a witness in an ongoing homicide investigation, but they’ve agreed to baby-sit you. There’s a man in the lobby and a two-man detail in a car outside. Mighty nice of them, considering that they’ve got one of the most undermanned departments in the country. A favor for a ‘brother,’ I suppose.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “No, you’re not. Not without me. Good night.”

  The senator had an early morning subcommittee meeting and was as delayed as the receptionist in his Russell Building office said he would be. A.C. and Lanham waited more than an hour, and then continued to wait, making the receptionist nervous, as they had no appointment. A.C. looked not a little sinister with the remnant cuts and bruises on his face from the beating he’d received outside Camilla’s New York apartment. The reception area of the senator’s office complex was a very public place, with aides and messengers constantly coming and going. Two men came in—a foreign ambassador and a lobbyist, both in dark pin-striped suits—and took seats on the opposite side. Both had appointments. Both were kept waiting.

  A.C. and Lanham were not wearing suits. The detective was in tan pants, a brown lightweight sport coat and a yellow Izod polo shirt. A.C. was dressed in white pants and blazer again, but with a light blue button-down shirt open at the collar. He had removed his tie upon leaving the hotel, taking note of Lanham’s casual clothing.

  The senator finally entered, striding in a hurry, talking to an assistant who followed. With sudden, practiced affability, he greeted the other two callers, shaking their hands and promising to be with them shortly. Then he turned and saw A.C.

  “Good God, A.C. James. How are you?” Whatever his smile said, his eyes said, Why are you here? What do you want? Why didn’t you call?

  “Hello, Senator,” said A.C., rising. “This is Detective Raymond Lanham of the New York Police Department. We have to see you.”

  “I’d really like to talk to you, A.C. But I wish you’d picked a better day. I’m already running way behind.”

  The foreign ambassador was looking at them with great unhappiness.

  “We can’t,” A.C. said. “It’s important. Life or death.”

  The senator relaxed slightly, allowing his curiosity and concern to show.

  “Official business,” A.C. said quietly. “National security.”

  “Okay,” said the senator, obviously wanting them out of the reception area. “But just for a minute.” His smile returned. “I’ll be right with you, Mr. Ambassador.”

  The friendship between the two men went back to when the senator had been a congressman serving on the House Armed Services Committee and A.C. had been working in Washington as a Pentagon correspondent. As a congressman, his friend had been a leader in the military reform movement, a decorated Vietnam War hero who had taken on the defense establishment over costly, budget-busting weapons systems that didn’t work and endangered the lives of American servicemen. A.C. had given him a public forum and backed him up in print whenever possible, especially in the lawmaker’s fight against a controversial new armored personnel carrier that many considered less a weapon than a death trap for American soldiers.

  In Washington terms, the man owed him, and now A.C. needed to collect. Now that he was a senator, his friend had been made a member of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. He was due to become its next chairman.

  In his office, the senator motioned them to chairs, went behind his desk, and then looked to his assistant, who had entered and was about to close the door behind him.

  “Just us, please,” said A.C.

  “Okay, George,” said the senator. “It’s all right.”

  The man left, obedient but bewildered.

  “What happened to your face, A.C.?” the senator asked.

  “An accident. Wrong place, wrong time. Nothing serious.”

  “Glad to hear. All right, let’s have it. Be quick.”

  “Pierre Delasante.”

  The senator frowned and sat slowly back in his chair, his hands coming together under his chin.

  “What about him?”

  “There have been a number of homicides in New York City, sir,” Lanham said, speaking very respectfully. “People in the fashion industry. Pierre Delasante is involved. He is in the middle of the whole damned thing. We’ve come down here to talk to him, if we can find him.”

  “I read the story in the Post,” the senator said. “What does this have to do with national security?”

  “That’s what we’d like to know,” Lanham took out the computer printout and held it up. “We have the federal file on Delasante. The whole federal government seems to be on him, but it doesn’t say why. We’d like to know why. We’d like to know what he’s done.”

  “He’s been indicted on conflict of interest charges,” the senator said. “It’s getting to be routine around here.”

  “Right,” said Lanham. “That doesn’t explain all this continuing surveillance. Or why the file is so top secret. Is there an espionage problem here?”

  The senator turned to A.C. “What do you have to do with this?”

  He obviously hadn’t read enough of the story to learn about Bailey Hazeltine and A.C.’s involvement with her. It would have been the first thing he brought up.

  “I’m a witness in the case,” A.C. said. “I’m helping Detective Lanham.”

  “If I tell you anything, what will you do with it?”

  “It’s not for publication …”

  “Delasante’s in a shitload of trouble in New York,” Lanham said. “We need him. If he’s in a shitload of trouble down here, too, we need to know that. We’d also like some help in finding out just where the hell he is. But the federal government’s been stiffing us at every turn.”

  “This is all off the record?” the senator said to A.C. “Absolutely?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Your word as a friend?”

  “Yes.”

  “On your oath as a military officer?” Lanham frowned at this. It did sound a little silly, but it was part of the bond between A.C. and the senator that they both took their former military service very seriously.

  “My word as an officer—and your friend.”

  “And you’ll tell absolutely no one you talked to me? Not Kitty. Not anyone.”

  “No one.”

  “I mean it, A.C.”

  “I never crossed you in the old days, not once. I helped you all I could. We need your help now. We have to know what this man is all about.”

  The senator closed his eyes a moment, then opened them, leaning forward, putting his hands down flat on his desk, as though he were on the verge of making an offer in some negotiation.

  “Are you involved in this in some personal way?” he said. “I mean, beyond being a witness?”

  “Yes. So is a friend of mine.”

  Lanham looked down at the floor.

  “Okay, A.C. The answer to your question is that Pierre Delasante has done nothing. He’s not in a shitload of trouble down here at all. That’s why the file is top secret. Because there’s nothing really there.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, nothing that we know of, and we’ve been looking real hard.”

  “Why was he indicted?”

  “A shot across the bow. The charges are essentially nonsense. The complaint will be knocked down as soon as he comes to trial, unless he commits perjury or gets caught at something else in the meantime. It was just a way to put a leash on him, to derail him a little. The White House is really pissed at him. He’s a scary son of a bitch, this guy.”

  “You’re worried about what he might do, even though he’s done nothing, is that it?” said Lanham. The de
tective seemed irritated that the senator was dealing mostly with A.C.

  The senator leaned back again. “Delasante left the federal service and immediately set up shop as a lobbyist. He also immediately began spending money, a lot of money—offices in Harbourplace, town house in Georgetown, a big limo, membership in the Army and Navy Club, the Congressional Country Club, a condo on Hilton Head, a yacht, the works.”

  “He signed up some clients right off, all foreign. Anyone who’s worked in the White House could do the same. And as long as you stick to consultation, not personal intercession, it’s okay. The problem comes when you have to deliver. Mike Deaver got in trouble because he tried to deliver for the Canadians. Delasante, well, he didn’t deliver. Didn’t even try. I don’t know if he was too smart or too cowardly, but he never made a call to the White House, never took anyone with a security clearance or in a policy position to lunch.”

  A.C. understood perfectly what his friend was saying. He wondered how well Lanham was following. The detective was still staring at the carpet.

  “We”—the senator spread his arms to include the entire federal establishment—“I mean, well, Delasante wasn’t appreciated. He was a loner in the White House, a functionary. You know, the burn-bag guy after conferences. But he was privy to a lot—vital military secrets as well as sensitive, embarrassing stuff. I won’t elaborate. The attorney general got nervous, I suppose because the White House chief of staff was nervous. The special prosecutor, who had nothing to do, did something. Hence the indictment.” He looked sharply over at Lanham.

  “He’s all right,” A.C. said. Lanham’s head jerked up. He sat back stiffly, anger visible behind his glasses. This was his investigation.

  “As soon as he was charged, his clients abandoned him.” He glanced at his watch, doing so obviously. “But other money, pretty big money, kept coming in. He gave up nothing. If anything, he was spending more. It seemed a pretty good indication of espionage, that he’d stored up some secrets and was selling them off. And he started spending a lot of time in New York, which as you know, A.C., is the espionage cesspool on this continent.

  “Nothing. No contacts with any foreign operatives, none. A lot of headwaiters, yes. Some pretty girls, some pretty boys. Some drug dealers. But he paid them. No one knows where it’s coming from, but the guy keeps getting piles of money. All cash. And he’s been spending it like a remittance man. I think there’s an IRS investigation, but of course I’m not privy to that.”

  “Sir,” said Lanham. “Do you have any reason to believe that Delasante’s social acquaintances—those girls and boys—are involved with any foreign government?”

  “No. Which is to say, not that I know of. All I know is what comes to us in regular reports and executive session. But there’s been nothing like that. Foreign connections were the first thing we, the investigating agencies, looked for. Do you know of any? Our information is that that black mistress of his—Molly Wickham—was basically just a hooker.”

  “That’s correct,” Lanham said. The senator was a Southerner. It occurred to A.C. that Lanham was getting a little edgy.

  The senator looked at his watch again. “That will have to be it, A.C. I’m running way behind. I’ve told you everything I know.”

  He stood up. A.C. did the same, but Lanham remained sitting.

  “Do you have any idea where Delasante has gone?” Lanham asked. “Could he have left the country?”

  “Left? Hell, no. He’s under federal indictment. He’d be liable to arrest and extradition. No, he’s still in the Washington area as far as I know. He was at a reception at the Kennedy Center the other night. Though I haven’t seen him since.”

  Now Lanham rose. He moved to the door ahead of A.C.

  “Just one more thing,” A.C. said. “He has some relatives, cousins—Camilla Delasante and Jacques Delasante. They also go by the name Santee. Are they involved in any of this, in anything bad? Their names showed up in this computer printout we have.”

  “Not that we know of,” said the senator. He went to the door and paused, his hand on the knob. “As I recall, they’re pretty respectable people. Very respectable. From Charleston, right? I think Pierre is the black sheep of that family.”

  He opened the door. “How long will you be in town, A.C.? Love to have a drink or something, maybe next week?”

  A.C. looked at Lanham, who did not seem happy.

  “I’m afraid not,” he said. “Thanks for your help. You’ve no idea how much I appreciate it.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” said the senator, smiling his affable constitutents’ smile and clapping A.C. on the shoulder, a gesture that served to propel him into the short hallway leading to the foyer. “Give my love to Kitty. Love to see her again.”

  A.C. had parked the rented Buick in a permit-only zone to be near the Capitol offices and found a large pink ticket on the windshield when they returned. Despite his unhappiness, Lanham smiled a little.

  “Law and order city,” he said, as he slid into the passenger seat. He reached into the glove compartment and took out the service revolver he had put there to avoid setting off the metal detectors in the Senate Office Building.

  “What now?” A.C. asked, starting the car.

  “You tell me,” said Lanham, easing the pistol into his shoulder holster. “You came down here looking for Camilla Santee. You must have had some idea where she might be.”

  A.C. frowned. He made a U-turn and headed the car west on Constitution Avenue.

  “I wasn’t lying to you, Detective. I don’t know where she is.”

  Ahead of them, rising above the stately federal buildings, the lush green hills of Virginia could be seen just across the Potomac.

  “Jacques Santee has a horse farm not far from here,” A.C. said. “I was out there yesterday. No one was there.”

  “It’s worth another try,” Lanham said.

  “Let’s stop at the hotel. I want to use the bathroom, and get the morning papers.”

  Lanham sighed. “All right.”

  There was nothing in the Post about the New York murders. The New York Times had just one story, in its Metropolitan section—full of pronouncements from the mayor and police commissioner but no new developments or revelations.

  While Lanham wasn’t looking, A.C. had retrieved his automatic and returned it to the painful place at his back. He’d not forgotten the beating Jacques Santee had given him, or the many guns in the main house of the horse farm. Or Bailey’s lifeless body.

  They made one more stop at Pierre’s Georgetown place, but found it just as deserted as before. Crossing the Potomac over the Key Bridge, A.C. turned onto Interstate 66 at Rosslyn, picking up speed. There was little outbound traffic, and they were soon out into the rolling countryside of the Virginia Piedmont.

  The swiftly moving storm front that had brought the rain had pushed it out of the area and the air was very clear and cool. By late afternoon, thermals rising from the sun-heated soil would dot the sky with puffy little cumulus clouds, but now its limitless blue was without blemish.

  A.C. drove very fast. Lanham made no objection. In fact, he said nothing at all. Chin in hand, slouched against the door, he stared straight ahead.

  “He has a lot of weapons in that house,” A.C. said. “Hunting rifles and all that. I looked through the windows.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “You said you’ve killed four people?”

  “More in Vietnam.” Lanham sounded a little irritated.

  “I killed a man once. In the army.”

  “You were in Nam?”

  “No. Korea. He was a North Korean infiltrator. It was almost an accident. He fired on a group of us. We didn’t want to hurt him. I suppose we could have let him go. But we didn’t. Stopping people like that was why we were in Korea.”

  “Don’t apologize.”

  “It wasn’t at all like war. There wasn’t a real war going on in Korea. It was rather like hunting. I hate hunting.”


  “Me too.”

  “I thought I’d put it out of my mind finally. But someone asked about me about it a few days ago and it’s come back. When I think about all these killings now, I see that man—the big hole in his back.”

  “You never get it out of your mind.”

  “It was Camilla who asked me about it,” A.C. said. “It was very strange—as though she knew.”

  “She’s from the South. Killing a slope like that probably raised you in her esteem.”

  The comment made A.C. angry. He decided against talking about Camilla any more with Lanham. They drove on for many miles without speaking.

  “What were you in the army?” the detective asked at last.

  “The Signal Corps.”

  “I mean what rank?”

  “Captain. I was a lieutenant in the national guard, and our colonel got me a promotion after we were activated.”

  “Figures. I was a fucking sergeant.”

  “I thought you went to law school.”

  “That was after the army.”

  In the light traffic, they made very good time, rolling into Dandytown before the lunch hour. There were cars parked outside the few stores at the crossroads, but not many people on the street. Just outside of the village, they came upon a woman in riding clothes, standing at roadside with her dog, as though waiting for someone. She wasn’t Camilla. She paid them no mind.

  Swearing, A.C. realized he had taken the wrong turn again. He jammed on the brakes, reversed sharply into a driveway, then accelerated rapidly back in the direction from which they had come. On the next rise, he almost collided with a blue sedan speeding toward them in the middle of the road. Swerving onto the shoulder, he hit the horn in anger as the other car flashed by.

  “There were two men in that car,” Lanham said.

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “They were wearing suits.”

  The road behind them was empty.

  “Did you notice them before?” Lanham asked. “On the way out here?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”