“He’s a good man, Christina.”
“I know that, Ben. But Senator Matera’s speech notwithstanding, that’s not really the primary qualifier for the Supreme Court, is it?”
“It should be.”
“But it isn’t.”
“But it should be.”
“But it isn’t!” She grabbed his shoulders and shook him as hard as she possibly could without causing an accident. “Ben, you have to live in the real world.”
“That’s what people say when they’re giving up.”
“Well—”
“Don’t.” He kept his eyes on the road, but his expression was fixed. “We’ve been through tough cases before. We never gave up.”
“But this isn’t a case, Ben. That’s just it. There’s no courtroom. We can’t control public opinion.” Her face turned downward. “Better to let it go and forge ahead. Concentrate on your reelection campaign, if that’s what you’re going to do.” She lightly touched the ring on her finger. “Maybe even give some thought to your personal life.”
Ben paused at a stop sign and turned to face her, his expression stern. “Christina, we are doing the right thing. I will not give up.”
The wheels screeched as he pulled away from the stop. “I know,” she said wearily. “That’s what I love about you. Sort of.”
Ben admired the sunroom overlooking the expansive garden in the rear of Roush and Eastwick’s home, but he had liked it better the first time he’d seen it, when it was filled with people and excitement, fraught with anticipation and intrigue. Today, with only Eastwick present, and he barely speaking, the excitement was subdued to the point of extinction.
Eastwick was seated in a footed chair with red upholstery and arms that extended into an eagle’s beak. He hadn’t moved from the chair since Ben and Christina arrived.
“I really don’t see how I can help you,” Eastwick said, speaking slowly and almost as if his voice were detached from his body. Ben noticed that there was a half-full brandy decanter on a table not far from his chair, and a small glass beside it bearing a trace of the dark, smoky liquid. “Tad never tells me anything.”
Christina tried to seem sympathetic. “I’m sure he’s trying to shield you from the worst of the media blows. He’s been taking some serious hits.”
“What am I, a child? I don’t need to be protected. I need to—” His voice caught. “I need to be able to pretend that I’m his partner. A true partner. Not just a political football.”
“I can imagine how you feel,” Christina replied, moving to the chair nearest his. “But let me say that I admire the courage you’ve displayed throughout all this. Not only during the police interrogation but even before, having the courage to come out during the acceptance speech and be forthright about—”
“I had nothing to do with that,” Eastwick snapped.
Christina hesitated. “Well, I know you weren’t the one making the speech, but still, you understood—”
“I most certainly did not. Thaddeus never told me he was planning to mention his sexual preference. We didn’t even discuss it.” His eyes shrank until they were almost the same color as the liquid in his glass. “I was outed.”
Ben’s lips parted. No wonder Eastwick had remained so distant from the confirmation campaign.
“He—He didn’t consult you?”
“Not even a hint.”
“To be fair,” Ben said, doing his best to defend the clearly indefensible, “Tad did tell us he didn’t plan to reveal his sexual preference. But when he stood before all those people and all those cameras—”
“Yes, I know. His sense of propriety overwhelmed him. Doesn’t that make him a wonderful person? And doesn’t that make me—what? A prop? A tool?”
Christina touched his hand sympathetically, but he acted as if he did not even feel it. “I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way. How did he explain it to you?”
“We haven’t talked. Not really. Not since the disastrous press conference when the body was found and the police hauled me away. Nothing. Not even a ‘Hi Ray, glad you’re not sharing a cell with Big Bruno.’ ”
Ben pressed his fingers against his forehead. The resentment threshold in the room was so high it was palpable. This was going to be more difficult than he had imagined. “I understand that you may be having some negative feelings right now. Still, can you give us any information about the baby he lost?”
“Shouldn’t you be asking Tad that question?”
“Believe me, I have. He’s not answering. It’s like some kind of wall. Someplace he won’t go.”
Eastwick laughed, a short, bitter cackle. “And for good reason.” He rose from his chair, moving as though he weighed a thousand pounds. He poured himself another brandy, downed it in a shot, then walked unsteadily toward the bay window that overlooked the green expanse behind the house. “What you may not know is that for the first thirty years of his life, Tad was perfectly straight.”
No, Ben thought, I didn’t know, but what else is new?
“That’s probably partly why the President’s investigators didn’t trip onto the truth. There was plenty of evidence of heterosexual affairs in his past. He claims he always was gay, deep down, but he was trying to sublimate it, trying to overcome it. Never quite worked, which might explain why he never married. Might also explain why he tended to favor women from the…seedier side of the tracks. No one who would ever make a suitable wife.”
“When did he, ummm…” Ben could feel his face coloring. How do you put these things?
“When did he realize he was gayer than La Cage aux Folles? Later. When he started going to those gay hangouts, more in an effort of self-discovery than because he was stalking action. He claims he was never really sure—until he met me.” Eastwick stared through the sunroom window, as if wishing he could bury himself in the loveliness of the peonies and the stately hedges. “At least that was when he first openly acknowledged it. I had had male lovers before, but not Tad.” He pressed his palm against the glass. “Despite what you heard at the hearing, I was his first.”
“How did you meet?”
“At an art gallery. A showing for one of the Maryland Court of Criminal Appeals judges who painted on the side. Talented woman, actually. I was there because I was clerking for Senator Hammond and I love art, and Tad was there because, well, it came with his job. He brought a date, a homely little thing from the poor part of Annapolis, but I could tell there was nothing between them. Between Tad and me, however, that was different. Instant chemistry, just like in the movies. Instant.”
“That’s nice.”
“It was more than nice. It was fantastic. It was a miracle. It was quite literally what I had dreamed of my entire life. Our first few months together—” He shook his head. “That’s when my life began.”
“And you’ve been together seven years?”
“Until now.”
“You’re not thinking about—about—”
“Can’t quite think of a word for it, right? Can’t call it divorce, because we’re not allowed to marry. But after seven years, there should be something.”
“I’m sure you’re exaggerating the problems,” Christina said reassuringly. “It must seem overwhelming right now. I’ve often said that these times of stress—trials, hearings, what have you—they’re tough on the subject, but they’re even tougher on the—the—”
“Still can’t think of a word for it? Partner, Tad usually says, but that makes us seem more like lawyers sharing an office than lovers sharing a bed. The law, that sacred cow to which Tad has devoted his life, won’t give us a word for what we are. You want to say, ‘It’s even tougher on the spouse.’ But you can’t. Because I’m not a spouse.”
“Maybe some counseling…”
“When? Tad’s too busy with this interminable and increasingly impossible quest to get on the Supreme Court, so he can sit on a bench with a bunch of no-life losers and decide the fate of people they’ve never met. That’s all he cares abo
ut. Not me.”
Ben drew in his breath. If this went on much longer, he was going to be pouring a brandy for himself. “But getting back to the subject of the abortion…”
“That happened before we met. Well before.”
“I understand, but I still thought he might’ve mentioned it to you.”
Eastwick turned suddenly, and his face was streaked with tears. “He did. And how do you think that made me feel? To know that he’d had a child with someone, someone he didn’t even…” He covered his face with his hand.
“But why won’t he talk about it? We need details to prepare a response.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Eastwick said with a wave of the hand. “It will all come out. Soon.”
“No doubt, but we have to prepare, think ahead, and we can’t unless—” Ben stopped mid-sentence. A cold chill enveloped his heart. “What do you mean, it will all come out soon?”
“It’s inevitable. So many people have been looking into it. For so long.”
Ben was confused, but his brain was beginning to work its way out of the muddle, and the only explanation was one he didn’t like at all.
“What are you talking about?” Christina asked. “The FBI investigation of Tad’s background?”
“No. Well, yes. But—no.”
“If you could perhaps be just a bit clearer.”
“I’m talking about the police.”
“The police?” Christina shrugged.
“The local police,” he snapped. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that. But that’s what I’m talking about. Not the feds. The locals. Lieutenants Fink and Albertson.”
“But they’re looking into the murder of the woman at the press conference. The one no one can identify.”
Eastwick collapsed forward, his head practically in his lap. “Don’t you see? She’s the woman.”
“Who is?”
“The woman who was killed. It’s her! I knew it the moment I saw her. Even though I’ve only seen photographs. Even though she’s done everything imaginable to alter her appearance.”
Christina threw up her hands, then turned to Ben. “Do you understand what he’s saying? Because I sure don’t.”
“I fear I do.” Ben edged closer. “I think what he’s saying is that the murdered woman…is the mother.”
“The mother of who?”
Eastwick looked up at her with red-streaked eyes. “The mother of the child Thaddeus chose not to have.”
50
Renny squeezed Loving’s throat all the tighter. Loving could feel the life quite literally oozing out of him. He knew he didn’t have much time, knew that Renny wouldn’t break it off at the last possible moment. This was for keeps. If he was going to do something to save himself, it had to be now.
“I—I—erg—” Loving tried to speak, but the hand clamped around his windpipe made it difficult.
“Do you think I am such a fool?” Renny said. “You think once again that you will bait me into sparing you so I can hear whatever nonsense you have to say. You are wrong.”
Loving gritted his teeth and tried to force the words out, despite the odds. “Y—y—you better.”
Renny laughed. “Still you have the temerity to threaten me? It is to laugh. I could crush the life out of you with a flick of my wrist.”
“I—know—art—stolen—”
Renny pulled his hand away as if he’d been bitten by a scorpion. “You know what?”
“I know you’re an art thief,” Loving managed to spit out. He desperately wanted to massage his neck, but his hands were still strapped to his side. His throat was so sore it ached with every syllable. “That’s what this is all about, ain’t it? Art. All that stolen stuff in your sex den.”
Renny laughed, but the merriment was not nearly so hearty as before. “And am I to believe that a homunculus such as you knows anything about fine art?”
“I know it’s a good way to make money,” Loving rasped. “I know art theft causes more losses than any other form of crime other than drug smuggling. A two-billion-dollar-a-year business, last I heard. I figured you were into drugs, until I saw your private room at the club.”
“Drug smuggling is for criminals. I am a patron. This is not crime. It is more like a gentleman’s high-stakes poker game.”
“Don’t kid yourself. You just figured out an easier way to make a living. Drugs are policed and prosecuted with vigor. But art theft is practically ignored, at least by comparison. Security at most museums is pretty light. Even morons like you and your henchmen who couldn’t possibly run drugs might be able to run paintings.”
Renny slapped the back of his hand across Loving’s cheek. “You will not talk to me in such a manner. I am a connoisseur of art. I do what I do out of love, out of respect. I take art from those who do not deserve it, from those who cannot protect and preserve it. I give it a good home. I ensure that it will last for the ages. Safe.”
“Safe someplace no one can see it but you,” Loving snarled.
“Once again, you are the fool,” Renny said. “What do I care if the great unwashed are able to see a priceless Vermeer? Can they protect it? Would they know how to preserve it? Are they even able to appreciate it? I think not.”
“So that makes it okay for you to steal it from the rightful owners?”
“Don’t be infantile. I do not steal. I leave that to penny-ante players such as Victoria. I buy from those who do. I implicate myself in nothing. What do I know of the provenance of a particular piece of art? I assume the seller has come by it honestly, and if I am wrong…” He smiled and shrugged. “Well. Then I am wrong.”
“You’re a crook.”
“Can you prove it? Can you trace any of the art that you saw? I think not. The statute of limitations on art theft is usually less than ten years, a pitifully small period of time to store a great work of art. While I wait to sell it freely, it only increases in value. In Switzerland, the statute runs a pathetic five years. Imagine that! Barely any time at all. In Liechtenstein and the Cayman Islands, a painting can come out of a bonded free-port warehouse in seven days. Seven days! Do you know that the recovery rate for stolen art is less than ten percent? Hardly a high-risk enterprise. Even for famous works, such as that Rembrandt with which you are so enamored, the recovery rate is less than fifty percent. The international art community is disjointed and pathetic. The Art Loss Register in New York and Geneva has improved the situation somewhat, but not nearly enough to slow me down. The worldwide market remains largely unregulated. Interpol is useless. Most countries have rejected the latest UNESCO treaty on art and antiquities. If I wish to sell, I need only go to the right country to do so. If I wish to keep the art, to admire it and treasure it, I need only remove it from its place of origin. No law requires a buyer to research the provenance of a work of art or to try to determine whether it has been lawfully obtained or stolen. And as a result, almost no one does. My work is preposterously simple—barely even a challenge. It would be more difficult to rob your local savings-and-loan than to heist a world-famous van Gogh.”
“So that makes it okay?”
“I take care of my possessions!” Renny shouted. “I save them from perilous hands! Even in museums, standards for preservation and restoration techniques are dangerously uncertain. I am much better able to maintain and protect these priceless gems for the common good of humanity.”
“Pretty funny,” Loving grunted. His strength was beginning to return, but he knew he was nowhere near ready to make a move. “Hearing you babble on about the common good of humanity while you’re torturin’ a guy tied to a chair.”
“Many sacrifices have been made to bring art into the world,” Renny opined. “You will barely be a blip on the cultural horizon.”
Totally delusional, Loving realized. But he wouldn’t get anywhere by pointing that out. It was just possible this was his opportunity to extract some information. “So Victoria—was she an art freak, too?”
“Victoria?” He made a snorting n
oise. “She knew nothing of art. All she knew was how to steal. And she wasn’t all that good at that.”
“So why was she at the Roush press conference?”
Renny ignored the question. “If that woman had any real talent or intelligence, she’d have been working the stock exchange. Or robbing payroll shifts. Box-office proceeds. Instead, she made do with podunk palaces like that five-and-dime museum in Boston. And she practically screwed that up. To her eternal detriment. Failed to notice what rich fathers she might offend.” He shook his head. “After that, the doors to the art world were closed to her. She was limited to penny-ante crime. Convenience stores. Liquor stores. Running petty errands for politicians and their cronies.”
“But what was she doing at the Roush press conference?” Loving asked again, even more insistently.
“You have too many questions. Now I do not believe you know anything. And even if you do, I do not believe you have told anyone.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I? We have cut your face—tortured you with electricity. Where is your cavalry, eh? Where are your saviors? I think they are not coming. I think they do not exist.”
The door to the storage closet opened and Wilhelm entered the room. He was carrying a space heater and a long iron rod with a sharpened tip. He plugged in the space heater. And waited.
“Do you know what it feels like to have a red-hot iron shoved into your body?” Renny asked.
“Happy to say that I don’t,” Loving grunted.
“That is about to change. I do not suppose this would be the time when you would like to talk?”
Loving shook his head.
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