by Mel Odom
Prio stepped up and saw the congressman’s smile freeze uncertainly on his face. When Prio showed him the gun, Jarvis tried to shove the woman off. She screamed and fell to one side. The congressman couldn’t get clear of the blankets.
Firing methodically, Prio put hollowpoints all within a space that could have been covered by a playing card into the congressman’s chest. The man’s body slammed back into the bed as crimson droplets sprayed over the sheets. His legs jerked a couple of times, then relaxed.
Candless continued to scream, hunkering down into a fetal position against the wall.
Prio turned and fired the remaining three bullets. One of them caught her in the face and the screaming stopped immediately. Crimson smeared the wall as she slumped to the carpet.
After sticking a fresh clip into the pistol, Prio took an envelope from inside of his coat and dropped it onto the bed. Inside was a letter put together from newspaper clippings that read: HE SHOULDN’T HAVE TAKEN HER AWAY. THEY GOT WHAT THEY DESERVED.
The note would lead the homicide investigators through Candless’s erratic life-style, and there were plenty of men to keep the detectives busy for a long time. Candless’s habit had kept her bed-hopping as she tried to make the down payments.
Another pocket yielded a current bill from a flower shop where an account had been kept in the congressman’s name for the last three months, and one of DiVarco’s men had paid for charges against it in cash. Every two or three weeks, a bouquet of flowers had been delivered to Candless at home or at work. Even if the homicide detectives were leery about establishing the relationship between the two through whatever records Jarvis might have left, the statement from the flower shop would put it out there for everyone to see.
Prio slipped the statement into the congressman’s wallet, then headed for the door. Jarvis’s death hadn’t happened merely to insure that Cashion was pushed to the head chair position on the House committee responsible for the funding of Omega Blue. Jarvis was also a message from DiVarco to Cashion that results were expected, soon.
11
The house was a two-story split roofline less than seven miles away from Wolf Trap Farm Park, and was cut out of the forested area. A wooden deck ran around the front and east sides of the house. A soft yellow light gleamed from two of the windows on the lower floor.
Parking his Cherokee in the garage that was set apart from the home, Slade Wilson crossed the yard to the front porch. He could tell from the flower beds that his father had spent the day working outside.
The door was open and he went on through. He could tell as soon as he entered the living room, where the stereo was playing an old Bonnie Raitt tune, that his father was still awake. He glanced at his watch and saw that the time was 10:42 P.M. An early riser, his father was usually in bed before now.
“Dad?”
“Kitchen,” Chaney Wilson called out. “I was beginning to wonder if you were coming home after all.”
“Sorry. I took my time and didn’t push it. Had some things I wanted to clear out of my head.” Wilson draped his jacket over a coatrack beside the door, then added the Delta Elite and Walther .22. He kept the 9mm in his boot, walked through the neat living room and dining area, past the stone fireplace, and into the small kitchen. Bonnie Raitt kept the background alive with her bluesy voice.
“Everything go okay with Kasey?”
Chaney Wilson had been a big man. He sat in his wheelchair in front of the stove, stirring the contents of a Dutch oven. He had broad shoulders and dark hair that refused to go gray, despite his nearly sixty years. He wore a beard these days, part of his self-styled rebellion against the clean-shaven look he’d had to keep while patrolling a beat in Washington, D.C., but his hair was still clipped short. His skin was weathered from the sun and the time he spent outside working the landscape, tending the livestock he kept, and chopping wood for the fireplace. After almost thirty years of after surviving his wife’s death several years ago, he wasn’t prepared to give in to the gunshot wound that had severed his spinal cord and paralyzed him from the waist down. He wore jeans over legs that were getting too thin for his barrel-chested build, and a black sweatshirt with the sleeves pulled up to mid-forearm.
“Yeah.” Wilson’s father already knew about Kasey’s new headgear. Kasey received more visits from her grandfather than she did from him.
“You don’t sound so good.”
“It’s hard seeing her like that.”
“I know.”
“Dr. Culley said there’s a new procedure she wants to try with Kasey.”
“Not drugs?”
“No. Something to do with virtual reality. She thinks there may be a way to tap into Kasey’s brain.”
“Not literally, I hope.”
“No.”
“She offers hope?”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to do it?”
“Maybe. I’m going to want more information first, and even if I decide to go ahead with it, there’s still Blair to contend with.”
“True.”
Wilson opened the refrigerator and poured himself a glass of iced tea, then freshened his father’s glass. “I saw her this evening.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It went about the way you’d think it would.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“You’d think I’d get used to it after a while.”
“You will.”
Wilson sipped his tea and peered into the Dutch oven. “Smells great.”
“Chili con carne. Cooked it earlier so all I had to do was heat it up once I knew when to expect you. You hungry?”
“Yeah.” The food at the center hadn’t begun to satisfy Wilson. It was hard to have an appetite while he worked with Kasey. It wasn’t her fault, but all of his attention was on making sure she was okay.
“Let’s eat.” Chaney cut the heat under the pot, then used pot holders and a towel to rest the Dutch oven in his lap. He wheeled himself into the dining area. “Grab some bowls, spoons, and napkins. The crackers are in the pantry, and there’s a garden salad in the refrigerator.”
Wilson managed the items in two trips, adding their tea glasses and the pitcher as well. He sat and they focused on the meal. It had been over a week since he’d eaten with his father. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed it until he was enmeshed in the mall talk surrounding their lives. Gradually, the conversation worked around to what Wilson was presently investigating.
His father was a good listener, only interrupting to clarify a point or make a limited observation. By that time they’d cleared away the chili and salad and were working on the sliced fruit and cheese from the tray Chaney had prepared.
“Boston’s a hard beat,” his father said when he’d finished. “Lot of old timers don’t hesitate over territorial rights. Figure they got the grease in all the right places.”
“I know.”
“Even in the D.C.squads, you find a certain amount of graft, but Boston’s been hit pretty hard lately with all the layoffs and street crime. I don’t think it would be in your best interests to be counting on any help up there.”
“I’m not.”
“Any idea how long this is going to take?”
“No. With the Korean involvement, I’m not sure even what we’re dealing with here.”
“When are you leaving?”
“First thing in the morning. I’ve got some prep work to do before I crash the House committee meeting with Vache.”
“How’s that going?”
Wilson cleared the dishes and headed for the kitchen with them. “Better than I expected. Lamar Cashion is the number-two man on the subcommittee, and he’s carrying a lot of weight these days.”
“Is he for or against you people?”
“Against. Vache has been taking a beating from them lately. The thing is, Cashion hasn’t seen all the cards in my hand yet.” Wilson ran water into the sink, added soap, and started on the dishes.
*
&nbs
p; “Slade.”
Wilson awoke with a start, slinging water out of the bathtub as he raised his arm in defense. He couldn’t remember the nightmare that had claimed him, but Kasey had been part of it. He blinked, his eyes felt grainy and hard. The water was up to his chin, just starting to turn cool now. He pushed himself up and reached for the intercom toggle switch on the wall. “Yeah, Dad.”
“Phone call. It sounds like Earl Vache.”
“Thanks. I’ll take it in my room.” He pushed himself out of the tub, then grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist. He picked up the 9mm from its place on the soap dish and padded into his bedroom.
The room was almost as barren as a motel room.
Once he’d moved in, after learning about Blair’s infidelity, he hadn’t tried to make the house a home. It belonged to his father. The only personal items were pictures of Kasey. His father had added a few things from Slade’s early days, like the framed movie poster of Alan Ladd in Shane his father had found somewhere when he was still a boy.
He lifted his cell and said, “Wilson,” then heard the click of his father’s phone being cut out of the connection.
“It’s Vache,” the FBI liaison said. “Somebody just whacked Congressman Jarvis.”
“When?” Wilson checked his watch. It was a quarter to one. He’d slept in the bathtub almost a half-hour.
“They just found his body. An aide called it in. Couldn’t be more than a couple hours ago.”
“What happened?”
“Jarvis was out at a hotel playing slap and tickle with a woman from his secretarial pool.”
“Did he have a past history with her?”
“Yeah. The aide knew all about it, but you can tell she’s trying to shove a lid over everything.”
“Who pulled the trigger?”
“It looks like the woman had a jealous lover tucked away somewhere too.”
Call waiting beeped in his ear before Wilson could reply, and he asked Vache to hold on while he switched to the other line. “Wilson.”
“It’s me,” Mac said. “We need to talk.”
“I’ve got Vache on the other line.”
“It’ll keep till you’re finished. Call me.” Mac broke the connection.
Wilson switched back over to Vache . “Have they got the jealous lover in custody?”
“No.”
“Then how do they figure there was one?”
“There was a note.”
“At the scene?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s pretty convenient.”
“That problem belongs to Washington, D.C.homicide. My problem is the House subcommittee meeting tomorrow.”
“That’s still on?”
“Oh yeah. Lamar Cashion called me himself as soon as the news broke over the media to let me know I needed to be there tomorrow afternoon. And I can tell you right now that the call was definitely not a friendly one.”
Wilson was silent for a moment.
“It’s interesting that the present investigation we’re on is taking us into Boston at the same time a jealous lover decides to kill Jarvis, leaving Cashion-who’s from Massachusetts-in charge of a committee that supposedly has clout with us.”
“They do have clout with your unit,” Vache warned. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking for an instant that they don’t. With Jarvis’s murder, there’re going to be a lot more people interested in that hearing tomorrow than would normally tune in. We’re going to be in the spotlight.”
“Think about the events that have happened.”
“I am. Are you trying to hand me a conspiracy theory here, Slade? Those things have been popular ever since Lincoln got whacked.”
“They also tell me fruit never falls far from the tree.”
“I don’t need clichés.”
Wilson ran a hand over his hair as the headache the long bath had almost gotten rid of came back in full force. “Then tell me what you need.”
“What we need. We need to skate that House sub-committee interview tomorrow.”
“I’ve got a good feeling about that.”
“A good feeling?”
“I’ll wear my lucky socks. Loosen up. Wait and see what happens tomorrow. I’ve got to get back to Mac.”
“Okay. If you hear anything, let me know.”
“Bet on it.”
Vache broke the connection.
Wilson cradled the phone, retrieved a pair of gray gym shorts from a dresser drawer, and pulled them on. He walked into the other bedroom when he kept his computer, a desk, and filing cabinets. Dropping into the seat behind his desk, he booted up the computer, tuned it to a media channel, and watched it without the audio portion as he dialed McDonald back.
In terse sentences Mac explained what Rawley had turned up in Haldane’s nightclub. “I got a call back from my buddy in Boston.”
The video footage on the computer monitor showed a coroner’s team taking Jarvis’s body out of the hotel under a white sheet that was spotted with blood. One of the media cameras almost made it into the back of the coroner’s wagon before a uniformed cop shoved the camcorder and photographer back. Wilson didn’t bother saving the sequence in the computer’s memory. The story was sure to play over the net, becoming more elaborate as it was spun out.
“What did he say?” Wilson asked.
“The Boston PD’s already working on the Korean angle inside the city.”
“Any links to Sebastian DiVarco?”
“Plenty. Rumor has it that DiVarco’s making a bid for control of a majority of the illegal action inside the city and the suburbs. The Koreans are supposedly fronting the muscle to get it done.”
“Any ideas why?”
“‘No.”
“A bona fide mystery.”
“At least it’s not a locked room,” Mac said. “I’d rather figure out why somebody’s doings something than how they’re doing it any day. Why gets easy once you start tracking the money. How is usually the tricky part.”
Wilson agreed, then rang off. He sat at the desk and watched the latest updates on Jarvis’s murder. It all tied in somewhere, somehow. He was sure of that. But Mac had it right when he said that tracking the money would help them uncover the players as well as the motivations.
“Slade?”
Wilson reached for the intercom. “Yeah, Dad?”
“Is everything okay?”
“Just got a couple new wrinkles to work through. I’ll probably be up for a little while.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“No.”
“Won’t do yourself any good if you’re worn out tomorrow.”
“I won’t be long. Good night, Dad.”
“Good night.” The intercom burped as the link was severed.
For a moment Wilson wondered what it would be like to simply reach out to a switch and tell Kasey good night. The thought hurt. He put it away and turned his mind to DiVarco, the Koreans, and Jarvis’s murder.
*
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
Slade Wilson glanced at Earl Vache as they moved through the labyrinth that comprised the House of Representatives. “More now than ever.”
Vache hustled to keep up with him.
Wilson looked at the map he’d drawn for himself after getting directions from one of the pages circulating within the building. He took another turn, then glanced at his watch. It was 12:35 P.M. , and he’d verified that Congressman Lamar Cashion was getting ready for the subcommittee hearing in a borrowed office.
“You want to tell me what you’re going to say to the guy when you see him?” Vache asked.
“No.”
“I’m in this too.”
“Not this part of it.”
“I’m here.”
“Not by invitation.”
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re taking a chance on making things worse?”
“Because you know me.”
“That really helps, Slade.”
Wilson ignored Vache and concentrated on keeping himself together. Everything depended on presentation. Cashion was an egotistical man and couldn’t be easily shoved, but political power was everything to the man. Last night’s events must have given Cashion a real good look at the things that could be his if he played his cards right.
Taking two more turns, Wilson found the door he was looking for. He went through, waving the secretary back into her seat as she got up to intercept him. He showed her the ID pinned to his sport coat.
The woman reached for the intercom button, an uncertain look on her face.
Wilson entered the rear office before Cashion could answer his secretary’s buzz.
The congressman was soft and balding. His blue eyes were light and watery behind the rimless glasses. The gunmetal gray suit he had on was carefully tailored. He pressed the intercom button. “Summon security, Ms. Travers.”
“Yes, sir.”
Cashion sat in the plush office chair and steepled his fingers before him, making a conscious effort to preen smugly. “What do you think you’re doing here, Wilson?”
“Lodging an informal request that we postpone this afternoon’s festivities for a few weeks while we recognize the nation’s loss.”
The congressman cursed. “After a couple of days, Jarvis won’t even be in the media, except for the tabloids, which will probably list sightings of him with Elvis.”
Wilson never had liked Cashion, but the callousness the man displayed now deepened the feeling.
“Jarvis got exactly what was coming to him,” Cashion said. “Don’t expect to buy me off with the sympathy ploy.”
“I didn’t expect to buy you off with that,” Wilson replied. He was aware of Vache fidgeting beside him as he took a step toward the desk.
Cashion pushed himself back against the wall. “Lay one hand on me, Wilson, and I’ll have you thrown in jail. This is what I’ve been talking about ever since I was put on this subcommittee: you people are losing sight of the line that separates you from the criminals you’re supposed to be pursuing.”
“I pursue criminals,” Wilson said in soft voice. “I’ve even been known to catch a few dirty congressional interference and special-interest groups.”
