“Dad ready?” Ashley said to Meg.
Meg nodded.
“Sylvia is meeting us at the airport, right?”
“Right,” Meg confirmed.
The Senator came through the connecting doors, leaving behind in the bedroom the four or five political advisers that surrounded him almost constantly, like a hovering cloud. He was wearing a gray tuxedo with a ruffled shirt and a scarlet cummerbund. His thick silvering hair was carefully styled, and his perennially tanned skin glowed with a patina of health.
“Well, well,” he said jovially, “aren’t our boys in blue smashing this evening? And my dear, you are looking especially lovely.” He leaned over to kiss Ashley’s brow.
“Thank you,” she said politely.
Martin watched the interchange closely.
“Where’s Jim?” the Senator asked, looking around the room. “Is he taking a direct flight to New York?”
“He can’t make it,” Ashley replied shortly. “He called a couple of hours ago.”
“Oh, what a shame,” Fair said. “Well, I guess we’d better get on the road, then. Will is having the plane fueled, and it’ll be waiting for us at the airport.”
That was their cue to leave, and they filed out, the Senator conferring in a low tone with Meg, the two policemen bringing up the rear with his daughter. There were two cars waiting for them at the curb. When Fair and Meg got into the back seat of one, still talking, Capo jumped in next to the driver.
That left Ashley and Martin standing with the doorman.
“Would you sit with me?” Ashley said to Martin. “I always feel uncomfortable being chauffeured around alone in that vast back seat, like the old lady in Driving Miss Daisy ”
He opened the door, and she moved past him, sliding over to allow him to get in next to her. The driver, who had his instructions, pulled away as soon as the door closed.
The lights of the city streamed past them in a blur as they headed to the airport. After a silent interval Ashley said to him, “Tell me some more about your work. You got me interested the other night.”
Martin turned his head, feeling a stab of sympathy for her. And reluctant admiration. She’d been stood up at the last minute by her boyfriend. Now, on her way to this shindig alone, she was gallantly trying to make conversation with a semi-stranger whose only connection with her was the badge he carried in his wallet.
“I work homicide,” he replied. “Investigating murders.”
“It seems inappropriate to ask if you enjoy that,” Ashley said slowly, “but do you?”
“I enjoy solving the puzzle, putting together the clues, the evidence. I like bringing justice to somebody who really deserves to get it.”
“Do you find many of the... perpetrators? Isn’t that the word?”
“That’s the word. We find enough of them. More than the newspapers would lead you to believe. Reporters love to go on about all the ‘unsolved murders,’ but we do all right.”
“In my profession, it’s fashionable to take a dim view of policemen,” she said with a note of amusement in her voice.
“Yeah, I know. We put them in the jails and you get them out,” he replied.
“It’s not quite as simple as that. Surely you agree that in a democracy even a person accused of a crime should have certain rights.”
“I agree in principle. But if you saw, firsthand, some of the slimeballs those laws put back on the streets, you might change your mind.”
“I have seen them,” she said quietly. “During my last year of law school I interned at a federal prison and wrote appeals for incarcerated felons.”
“They must have had a great time with you,” Martin couldn’t stop himself from saying.
“There were some problems in the beginning, but once they got used to thinking of me as their lawyer, things settled down.”
“Did you have a guard in the room with you when you met with the prisoners?”
“At all times.”
“I’m relieved to hear it. It’s nice to know that the penal administration is still somewhat in touch with reality.”
“I gather that you feel women don’t belong in certain branches of the law?”
“I didn’t say that. Most people, of either sex, don’t belong inside prisons. Cons will do anything, use anybody, to get out. Lawyers, teachers, social workers, anybody going in to a prison on a daily basis is inviting a hostage situation.”
“How would you suggest convicts talk to their lawyers, visit with their families?”
“There’s a wonderful invention called the telephone. You just pick up the receiver and dial, and you can talk to anybody you want.”
“Are you suggesting that prisoners never be permitted personal visitation by anyone during the course of their terms?” She sounded as if she couldn’t believe it.
“Why not? They’re in prison, for God’s sake, not at summer camp. Weekend furloughs, work release, tutorial programs—next thing you know they’ll be importing hairdressers and masseurs to make sure the poor convicts are comfortable.”
“Lieutenant, I’m glad you’re not in Congress making the laws,” she said dryly. “You’re very tough.”
He noticed his demotion from “Tim” to “Lieutenant” and wondered if it had anything to do with the content of his remarks. “After seventeen years on the force, I have to be,” he said. He looked over at her, a dim outline in the darkened car.
She didn’t comment.
“Tell me something,” he said. “When you were working with the cons, didn’t you ever meet one of them that you wanted to wall up someplace with a bunch of bricks, like that guy in the Edgar Allan Poe story?”
To his surprise, she suddenly burst out laughing. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m serious. I mean somebody so bad, such a low life, that you never wanted him to see daylight again. Somebody you wanted to make sure would never get out to hurt anyone else.”
There was a long silence, and then she said in a small voice, “I used to feel that way about the child molesters.”
“There, you see?”
“But I wasn’t proud of feeling that way. I believe that our constitution provides the same protections for every person, regardless of what that person has done.”
“That’s what you believe, what you want to believe,” Martin said. “But that’s not what you feel.”
Ashley shook her head as if to clear it. “How did we get into this? I was trying to make polite chitchat, and the next thing I know I’m defending the concept of constitutional democracy.”
He laughed. “And to me.”
“Why not you?” Ashley replied, turning her head to look at him.
There was a silence while they examined one another.
“I don’t think of myself as an especially articulate spokesman for any point of view,” he finally said quietly.
“You should. You boxed me into a corner very nicely. I don’t like being forced to confront the differences between the way I want things to be and the way they actually are.”
“No idealist does.”
“Is that what I am?”
“You talk like one.”
She sighed and turned to look out at the passing landscape. “I guess I do. I know I do. I wish I could stop.”
He fought back a smile. “Why would you want to stop?”
“Because I know it makes me sound like a college freshman who’s just discovered the Federalist Papers.”
He bit his lower lip, hard, and said in a strangled voice, “Not a freshman, no.”
“At least a sophomore, right? A sophomore enrolled in ‘History 203-The Foundations of the American Justice System.’”
They were laughing together when the driver entered the airport, skirting the commercial terminals and heading for the small private airfield at the rear. There a plane was waiting, its lights on, its pilot standing next to the portable steps. He was wearing a leather flight jacket and smoking a cigarette.
Bomber
jacket, Martin thought with irritation as they got out of the cars and walked toward the plane. The guy was actually wearing a bomber jacket, like John Wayne in one of those World War II movies. Were they going to bomb New York?
You’re just annoyed because your little ride with her ladyship is over, he said to himself. You were really enjoying her company back there, weren’t you? Well, don’t get too used to it. If golden boy Dillon had shown up as planned, you would have been talking to the dashboard in the front seat.
They got aboard the plane, a Cessna twelve-seater, and Ashley fell into conversation with Meg and her father. Martin sat right behind the pilot with Capo and amused himself during the half-hour flight by watching the little green Day-Glo plane bobbing up and down on the instrument panel. When they landed and homed in on the runway, a beeper sounded, the noise becoming more insistent until it merged into a single tone as they locked into the approach signal. They landed as smoothly as an Olympic diver cuts the water.
There were two cars waiting for them when they got off the plane. Martin was amazed at how effortless travel was for these people; no merciless traffic, no frenzied terminals, no flagging cabs that sped past in the rain. Money could accomplish anything.
The drive in from the airport took longer than the plane flight, but they arrived at the Metropolitan Opera House in plenty of time. The fountain on the esplanade sprayed them with mist as they passed, and Martin’s eyes, accustomed to the night outside, were dazzled by the brilliantly lit, ornate lobby. The Senator garnered a round of applause as he entered, and they were shown to a box, where Sylvia Fair was already seated.
Martin looked around before the house lights went down. The place was huge, and glittering, not least because of the jewelry worn by the female patrons of the arts. The low hum of conversation fell to a hush as the lights dimmed and the curtain rose.
He couldn’t make much of the story, which seemed to involve doomed love and Violetta dying, as advertised, in the end. The singing, which sounded suspiciously like screaming to him, gave him a headache. At the interval he bolted seltzer water with two aspirin, smoking until the sounding of the bell-like gong called them back for more culture.
Ashley had been seated next to him throughout, and as they finally got up to leave, she whispered, “I don’t think you enjoyed the performance very much.”
He looked at her, couldn’t lie, and shook his head. “I don’t understand that kind of music. I like the Temptations.”
“Smokey Robinson?”
“Yeah.”
“So do I.”
He turned as the Senator merged with the crowd and shook hands, edging toward the staircase. “Where’s he going?” Martin asked, glancing around for Capo.
“There’s a reception at the Dining Car just down the block,” Ashley replied.
“We have to walk out on the street?” Martin demanded. Why hadn’t anyone told him this? And why was that damned Senator always running away from him?
“Sergeant Capo is with him,” Ashley said gently. “I know my father is difficult to keep track of, but you can relax.”
They joined the crush of people pouring through the lobby and out into the westside spring night. A steady stream of humanity flowed away from Lincoln Center and toward the restaurant, and they followed along in its wake.
They were greeted at the door by a blue-haired matron, who kissed Ashley and viewed Martin with undisguised interest. Ashley introduced him as “Timothy Martin,” and the woman’s eyes followed them as they walked inside.
“They don’t have to know you’re a cop,” Ashley explained.
“Who’s sponsoring this again?” Martin asked suspiciously.
“American Civil Liberties Union,” she replied.
He decided to keep a low profile.
The restaurant was one of those theme clubs so popular with the quickly sated, well-heeled crowd who patronized it. It was decorated and furnished like a thirties railroad dining car, complete with oakwood paneling, fringed lamps, and red plush carpeting. The walls were hung with prints of movie posters from the period, and stars like Jean Harlow, James Cagney, Spencer Tracy, and Joan Blondell were displayed for the diners, dressed in the exaggerated fashions of the Depression, frozen in their youth for all time.
The guests sampled the buffet as the Senator and his wife made the rounds. Ashley followed them, circling the place once and then returning to stand next to Martin. She took a glass of wine from a passing server and sipped it sparingly.
“I feel like I’m falling down on the job,” she observed.
“Can’t take any more flesh pressing?” Martin asked.
She shook her head.
“Want something to eat?”
She looked as though she didn’t know one way or the other.
“Isn’t that caviar?” he inquired.
She smiled. “Yes.”
“I’ve always wanted to try that.” He scooped some of the grayish black eggs onto a cracker and popped it into his mouth. His eyes widened with alarm.
Ashley smiled.
“Gah,” he said, swallowing. “Tastes like soap. Heavily salted, mushy soap.”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“No, no. Beer is an acquired taste. That stuff is worse than the earache medicine I used to take when I was a kid.”
“It costs a fortune, too.”
He shook his head in wonderment. “I’d love to ditch this place and get a hamburger,” he said.
“I’d love to go with you,” she replied wistfully.
“Would you really like to get out of here?”
“You bet.”
“Then why don’t you just go?”
She gazed at him, then shook her head, her expression fatalistic. “That isn’t done, Lieutenant. People in my position can’t follow their whims like that.” She selected a smoked oyster and then put it back again. “I’m supposed to be here, and here I’ll stay. I may not be charming the faithful at the moment, but at least I’m showing my face.” She made a quick sandwich and took two bites before dumping it in the trash. No wonder she stayed so slim.
Martin surveyed the room, and after a while he began to notice that people were eyeing him steadily.
“Is it my paranoid police personality,” he finally said to Ashley, “or are these people staring at me?”
“Your status is somewhat unclear,” she replied.
“What?”
“Jim isn’t here, and they think you’re my date.”
He could feel his face growing warm. “Oh.”
She walked away, leaving him to look after her, his head banging like the percussion section in a marimba band.
He took two more aspirin, wishing for a double Jack Daniels but settling for a club soda. When he looked up, there was a stylish brunette with a martini in her hand standing next to him, giving him a slow once-over.
“You’re here with Ashley?” she said. She had lustrous black hair, flawless olive skin, and a predatory expression.
“Uh... yeah.”
“What do you think of her?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Is she any good in the sack?”
Martin almost dropped his glass.
“I’ve always wondered,” she went on, oblivious to his reaction, “if all that sweetness is an act. And I like your shoulders. So if you get tired of sucking on that particular honeycomb...”
“Excuse me,” he said in a strong voice, and fled. He almost crashed into Capo, who was standing against the far wall, looking bored.
“Quite a group,” Martin said, downing half his drink in one gulp.
Capo shrugged. “My ears are still ringing from all that yelling. I wish I was home in bed.”
“We’ll be out of here in an hour, once the Senator says a few gracious words.”
“Let’s hope it’s a few.”
Ashley returned, and a moment later the voluptuous brunette appeared at her elbow.
“Hello, Carmen,” Ashley said evenly,
with an obvious lack of enthusiasm.
“Who’s your friend?” Carmen asked.
Ashley performed the introductions. “Timothy Martin, Carmen Hughes.”
“Did you like the Verdi?” Carmen asked Martin. “I thought I’ve heard him better done.”
Martin said nothing.
“Of course, I really prefer his Rigoletto,” Carmen ventured. “Don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” Martin said. “I’ve never heard it.”
“But my all-time favorite is Aida. There’s nothing to compare to that exotic setting, the aria in Act One, the triumphal march in Act Two. What do you think, Timothy?”
“Carmen,” Ashley tried to interrupt, her eyes on Martin’s face.
“I’m talking to him,” Carmen snapped.
Martin finished his drink and set his glass down smartly. “Look, miss,” he said to Carmen. “I went to college nights, on the GI bill, and held down a full-time job while I majored in police science. I didn’t have a lot of time for the opera.” He turned his back on all of them and walked to the door, pushing through it and gulping lungfuls of the fresh night air. He stayed outside for a blessed minute, and when he turned to go back, Ashley was behind him.
“Tim, don’t let Carmen get to you,” she said quietly.
He didn’t answer.
“I’m sure she wasn’t trying to make you feel...”
“Yes, she was.”
“All right, she was. But she was just getting back at you for giving her the brush-off earlier.”
He looked at her.
“Yes, I saw it. And she’s not used to that, believe me. Her sultry come-on, or her daddy’s money, can usually get her just about any man she wants.”
“I didn’t handle her very well,” he admitted.
“You handled her just fine, the only way you could. Subtlety doesn’t work with Carmen.”
“What was she talking about, anyway? Who’s Verdi?”
“The composer.”
“You told me Dumas wrote the thing.”
“He did. Verdi wrote the opera based on the Dumas play.”
“Oh.” He shrugged. “I guess Carmen will have to look beyond me for the type of company she obviously prefers.”
“Unfortunately for me, I’m part of the company she prefers.” Ashley sighed.
Fair Game Page 8
