“And that was where Vickie came in.”
“You got it.”
“So what was it he wanted to rip off—his daddy’s summer cottage on Cape Cod?”
“It was actually more ambitious than that. He’d scoped out a small but affluent museum in Boston. Somehow acquired a lot of information about it: interior schematics, the strength and schedule of the security force, that sort of thing. And he wanted Vickie to partner up with him.”
“Did she do it?”
“Oh, yeah. The robbery was in all the papers at the time. For a place with such a valuable collection, it was pathetically under-protected. But somehow or other, it all went bad.”
“They got caught?”
“No. No one ever got caught. But Vickie showed up on my doorstep the next day bleeding from about a hundred places. She was practically dead.”
“Why didn’t she go to the emergency room?”
Roush gave Ben a long look.
“Oh. Right. Thief.”
“Yeah. Thief very much being sought by the police. Fortunately, I know a little first aid, at least enough to get by. Most of the wounds were superficial, all but a bad stab wound near the clavicle. Her left arm was in horrible shape—she had quite literally wrenched it out of its socket. Fixing that was no pleasure, I can assure you. I poured bourbon down her throat, but I know it still hurt like hell.”
“Where was Jerry?”
“That was the million-dollar question. I kept asking. She wouldn’t answer. Finally, one night, when I think she was too weak and too drunk to resist, she told me what happened to her partner.”
“Did he go on the job with her?”
“Oh, yeah. She couldn’t do it alone.”
“So, he was hurt even worse than she was?”
Roush let his eyelids flutter closed. “She killed him.”
Ben’s lips parted. He hoped his jaw wasn’t drooping, but it was impossible to be sure.
“Said she had no choice, of course, but that didn’t make it any better. Falling-out amongst thieves, something like that.”
Ben leaned forward. “So what did you do?”
“What else could I do? I’m a judge! I told her she had to turn herself in.”
“I’m guessing that idea didn’t appeal to her much.”
“You guess correctly. She screamed and shouted, threatened. Told me that if the cops knew about her I’d be implicated, too. And she was right, of course. But it didn’t matter. I mean, cavorting with a thief was one thing. But this was murder!”
“I have a feeling this story isn’t headed for a happy ending.”
“Your instincts are impeccable. I waited until she was stronger. The police still hadn’t made the slightest break in the case. With my connections, I was able to monitor their progress, or lack thereof, pretty closely. They didn’t have a clue. Finally, I told Vickie she had to turn herself in. And I told her that if she didn’t, I would.”
“How did she respond?”
“Two simple words: ‘I’m pregnant.’ ”
Ben fell back into his chair. Now, at last, it was all beginning to make sense.
Roush rose, glancing toward the imposing bookshelf behind his chair, as if selecting something to read to help pass the time. “What was I going to do? Turning in your lover and implicating yourself was one thing. Turning in the mother of your child—that was quite another. We argued for days, back and forth. Mind you, she didn’t want that child; it was just a blackmail device for her. I’ve always hated the idea of abortion—still do. But what business did I have raising a child? Me, an unmarried man preoccupied with sleazy women, a man increasingly realizing he was not entirely heterosexual. Was I going to raise a child with this woman? Was I going to raise a child without this woman?” He leaned his head against the leather-bound books. “It was an insoluble problem.”
“So you reached a compromise.”
Ben could only see the back of the man’s head nod. “She got an abortion. I paid for it. And then she got the hell out of my life and never bothered me again.” His eyes turned toward the ceiling, catching a glint from the fluorescent lighting. “I was appointed to the D.C. Circuit. I bought a beautiful house. I met Ray.” A smile briefly flickered across his face, then faded. “Life was good. For a while.”
“She didn’t stay gone, did she? She came back. The day of the press conference.”
“She, like everyone else in America, had seen all the publicity the day before announcing my nomination and my voluntary outing.”
“Did you talk to her?”
Another nod. “My housekeeper let her in, though she fibbed about it later to protect me. I didn’t recognize Vickie at first. She’d totally changed her look—and I don’t just mean a new hairdo. I’m talking plastic surgery. Major changes.”
“Nose job? Breast augmentation?”
“More like total reconstruction of the facial features. Seems the heat was on her pretty hard after the robbery. Jerry’s body was discovered, and some rich relatives called out the dogs. There was a concerted effort to find his killer, financed by not only law enforcement but some major-league big bucks. Somehow they figured out she was involved. She had to disappear, totally disappear. So she changed her name, got some fake ID, redid her face. Even altered her fingerprints, apparently. That’s why she’s been so difficult for the police to identify. She’s not only no longer Vickie—she’s a person who doesn’t really exist. Victoria. No past. No records of any kind. A phantom figure. Not even the IRS had anything on her. And that’s saying quite a bit.”
“What did she want?”
“Three guesses.”
“Money.”
“Got it in one.” Roush sighed. “Once a thief, always a thief. Tried to shake me down. Figured a potential Supreme Court nominee with a dark secret was good for something. Figured it wouldn’t help my chances if the world knew I’d paid for an abortion. Threatened to expose me unless I came across with a million bucks. Said she’d already given all the proof to a third party. It was pay up or kiss the Supreme Court good-bye.”
Ben swallowed. “So you—”
“I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re thinking. I wouldn’t have opened that door during the press conference if I’d had any idea she was there. But I knew better than to blow her off. She wasn’t bluffing when she said she’d expose me. So I told her I couldn’t deal with this at the moment, with reporters and a zillion other people running around the estate. It wasn’t like I kept a million bucks lying around the house. Told her to hide out behind the arbor gate till everyone was gone and we’d talk about it. I went back to my business and, well, you know the rest. Next time I saw her, she was dead.”
Ben batted a finger against his lips. “Dead, and positioned in a place where her body was bound to be found during the press conference.” He looked up suddenly. “And Ray—”
“I’m certain he had nothing to do with it. I’m certain.”
“He was near the body.”
“I don’t care.”
“Disguised or not, he knew who she was. And what she could do to you.”
“I’m telling you, Ben—it wasn’t him.”
“He had a motive.”
“Hell, I had a motive!” Roush’s voice shattered the stillness of the room. “But I didn’t kill the woman. And I don’t know who did. But it wasn’t Ray!”
Ben rose slowly out of his chair, one hand pressed against his aching forehead. “That’s it. That’s what this is all about!”
“I don’t follow you.”
“The murder. The way it was done. It was about giving you a motive.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying you’ve been framed, Tad. You and Ray. Intentionally. By someone who knew who that woman was. And that proof Vickie gave to a third party—when her confederate heard she was dead, he or she must’ve forwarded it to a right-wing political interest group that leaked it as soon as you got out of committee.”
“But who would kill that woma
n just to get at me?”
“I don’t know—yet. That’s what we have to figure out. As soon as possible. It’s the only thing that can save you now.”
“How are we going to do that? The police don’t have a clue.”
“I don’t know. But if we can tell your story, if we can show that you’ve been framed, that this is part of some conspiracy to keep you off the Court—” A light shined in his eyes. “Dear God, I wish you’d told me all this before. This changes everything.”
“I don’t see what you’re so excited about.”
“Finally, this game is being played on my home turf.” He batted a finger against his lips. “We expose the true murderer, show that you’re the victim of a frame-up, and the rest of these objections to your nomination will seem trivial by comparison. Political puffery. Part of the scam.”
“I’m still not following you.”
Ben leaned across Roush’s desk. “Since this whole thing began, people have been dragging me along, trying to get me to do things I don’t know anything about. Representing you at the hearing, which I was pathetically unsuited to do. Dealing with politics, which I don’t even begin to understand. My performance has been pitiful. But clearing an innocent man who has been intentionally framed…” Ben’s eyes met Roush’s, a determined expression on his face. “That’s what I do.”
54
Loving stared at the gun Pretty Boy held at point-blank range. Had he made it so far, suffered so much, only to come to this? He had put up with Renny’s torture, had seared his own flesh to get free, only to be drilled by this ignoramus?
“Now, wait, Pretty—er, Wilhelm. I don’t think you wanna do this.”
“Really? Because I am pretty sure that I do. Paying this debt will give me enormous pleasure.”
“Well, yeah, you, sure. But I’m not so sure I’m gonna enjoy it.”
“I am rather certain you will not.” He readjusted his aim, pointing the gun at a somewhat lower part of Loving’s anatomy. “I will make the first six or seven shots nonlethal, yet highly painful. I will cripple you. I will eliminate your manhood. I will let you bleed. Then at long last, I will kill you.”
“Gosh, Wilhelm, I can see you still bear a grudge, but this seems like a bad way to work it out. Perhaps we could just arm wrestle?”
“I do not think so.” Pretty Boy extended his gun arm.
Loving swallowed hard. So this was it, this was really, truly it. There was nothing he could do, no place he could run. His bag of tricks was empty. Nothing left but getting drilled by this Eurotrash moron.
Pretty Boy’s trigger finger tightened. “Sweet dreams, Mr. Loving.”
“Sweet dreams to you, sucker,” said a voice in the darkness. And a second later, Pretty Boy tumbled downward in a heap on the floor.
Loving’s eyes fairly bulged. “What in the—”
Trudy stepped into the light. Holding a baseball bat. “How do you like my swing, slugger?”
Loving was so astonished—and relieved—he could barely speak. “I think you’re so incredible I could—”
Trudy’s eyelashes fluttered. “Yes?”
Loving pulled Trudy close and delivered a kiss right on the lips.
“My, my,” Trudy said when it was over. “Has my big handsome gotten over his teeny-weeny difficulty?”
“Not likely. But a debt is a debt.” He grinned. “Thanks for showin’ up and savin’ my bacon.”
“I just wish I’d gotten here sooner, sugar. You’re a mess.”
“Don’t worry. I clean up pretty good. What are you doin’ here?”
“Did you really think I was going to leave my boyfriend all by himself?”
“Trudy—”
“After we split, I kept a low profile but hung around the club to see what, or who, emerged. When Renny returned to his private lounge without you, but with traces of blood on his hands, I knew something was up. I saw him whisper something to this lug down on the carpet, who got a great big grin on his face I didn’t like at all. So I followed him.”
“And the baseball bat?”
“I keep it in my car. A girl has to protect herself.”
Loving wiped blood from his brow. “Remind me not to tangle with you.”
More eyelash batting. “You’re welcome to tangle with me anytime, lover boy.”
“Later. Any idea where Renny is?”
“Uh-huh. He just took his bedtime downer and headed for his upstairs apartment. There are guards.”
“There always are. Lead the way, Trudy.”
“Sure you’re up to it?”
“No choice, really.”
She smiled at him, then puckered up. “Another kiss? For luck?”
Loving returned the smile. “Sorry. Not on the first date.”
Renny had just snuggled into the satin sheets of his huge bed, prepared to sleep the sleep of the content, a good day’s work complete. He liked to keep his sleeping quarters private. There were plenty of places downstairs for indulging in the pleasures of the women who drifted in and out of the club. This was his sanctuary, his fortress of solitude, a place where he could be alone with his thoughts. No women were allowed, nor anyone else for that matter. The boys on the landing made sure he wasn’t disturbed.
At least, that was how it was supposed to work.
His eyes had barely closed when he felt a hand wrap around his throat.
Renny tried to sit up, but the strong hand pinned him to his pillow.
“Don’t bother strugglin’,” Loving whispered. “You couldn’t outmuscle me even if you weren’t doped to the gills. And you are.”
Renny tried to speak, but the hand crushing his windpipe made it difficult. “What—where—”
“Your guards? Lying in a heap on the plush shag carpet, which by the way may be hot stuff in Europe, but here in the United States is totally passé. Very 1970.” He tightened his grip. “Don’t bother callin’ for them. They’re likely to be immobile for some time. Apparently they don’t play baseball back in whatever country you recruited them from.”
Renny’s legs and arms thrashed back and forth. Loving barely twitched.
“Here’s the deal,” Loving said. “I know you understand how quickly a person with a collapsed trachea can die, since you were briefing me on exactly that subject earlier. So I’ll give you one chance to tell me what I want to know. One chance. You will tell me why Victoria went to the Roush press conference. You will tell me about this political favor Victoria did earlier in the year. You will tell me about the Boston museum job. You will tell me everything else I want to know—anything that might be of interest to me. And in exchange, I will let you live to see the authorities clean up this den of sex and stolen art. You will serve a long prison sentence. But you will be alive. If you tell me what I want to hear. Are we clear on this?”
Loving continued choking Renny for a few more seconds, just to make sure he got his point across. When he finally released the man, he sat upright, coughing and sputtering, massaging his sore neck. His eyes watered with pain. He coughed up blood. He hyperventilated. Then he fell back against the bed, utterly exhausted.
“All right,” he said, his voice feeble and cracked, “where shall I begin?”
55
“Judge Haskins!”
Several stray members of the White House press corps caught sight of him as he crossed from the West Wing to the driveway where his ride was waiting. He was nattily attired in a navy blue suit, both buttons buttoned, and a dynamic red tie. His hair was freshly cut and appeared to be sprayed into place. When the bright lights of the minicams switched on, a faint trace of base makeup was discernible at the ridge of his jaw.
He paused, as if thinking about whether he really wanted to deal with the press, then let out a small sigh and turned to face them.
“Have you been talking with the President?”
Haskins dipped his head slightly. “I have had that pleasure, yes.”
“Then it’s confirmed. After the Senate rejects Thadde
us Roush, President Blake is going to nominate you.”
He held up his hands. “I don’t want to presume to know the mind of the Senate.”
“You must be aware that Roush lacks the votes to be confirmed,” the brunette representing CBS said. “After he’s out of the running, the President will want to put someone up fast. While he still can.”
“If Judge Roush’s nomination fails, it is my understanding that the President wishes to move forward with all deliberate speed.”
The AP stringer tried to cut past the polite gobbledygook. “He’s going to nominate you, isn’t he?”
Haskins gave them a gosh, shucks shrug worthy of Ronald Reagan.
“I have three unnamed sources who say you’re going to be the pick,” the CBS woman added, egging him on. “The President would be crazy not to choose you. How could the Senate reject a national hero?”
Haskins held up his hands. “Look, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I bear no animosity whatsoever toward Judge Roush. He is a fine man, a fine jurist, and he would undoubtedly be a fine member of the Supreme Court. I have no desire to take that away from him.”
“But if the Senate does reject him?” the AP stringer asked.
“As it will,” the CBS representative added.
Haskins tilted his head to one side. “In that unfortunate instance, I would of course consider accepting any nomination, were I so honored as to be selected.”
“And the President has in fact already selected you, hasn’t he? It’s a done deal.”
“Again, I don’t want to presume to know the minds of others. Especially not the leader of the free world.”
A new reporter pushed to the front, a short, wiry man whose age was demonstrated not so much by his balding head as the fact that he was actually using a pad and paper. “Judge Haskins, this is a matter of great national importance. You’ve met with the President for three consecutive days. We know he’s had his people running background checks on you. We know his staff has pored over every opinion you’ve written in your time on the Tenth Circuit. And today, you’ve been closeted with him for more than two hours, which is the functional equivalent of spending a week with anyone else on earth. The people have a right to know—are you going to be the next nominee for the Supreme Court?”
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