by Linda Howard
An older woman wearing a gray sweat suit with Nikes answered the door and greeted him with a warm hug.
“Nick! What a nice surprise! Come in.”
“Hi, Carrie,” he said, kissing her cheek. “This is Sergeant Sam Holland. Carrie is like a member of the family and keeps everyone in line.”
“Which is no easy task.” Carrie shook Sam’s outstretched hand and sized up the younger woman before turning back to Nick, her approval apparent. “I’ve been telling Nick for years that he needs to settle down—”
“Don’t go there, Carrie.” He made an effort to keep his tone light even though his heart was heavy and burdened by what he had to tell her and the others. How he wished he were here to introduce his “family” to his new girlfriend. “Are they home?”
“Down at the stables with the kids. I’ll give them a call.”
Nick rested his hand on her arm. “Tell them to leave the kids there, okay?”
Her wise old eyes narrowed, this time seeing the sorrow and grief that were no doubt etched into his face. “Nick?”
“Call them, Carrie.”
Watching her walk away, Nick sagged under the weight of what he was about to do to her, to all of them, and was surprised to feel Sam’s hand on his back. He turned to her and was once again caught off guard by the punch of emotion that ripped through him when he found her pale blue eyes watching him with concern.
They stared at each other for a long, breathless moment until they heard Carrie coming back. Nick tore his eyes off Sam and turned to Carrie.
“They’ll be here in a minute,” she said, clearly trying to maintain her composure and brace herself for what she was about to hear. “Can I get you anything?”
“No,” Nick said. “Thank you.”
“Come into the living room,” she said, leading the way.
The house was elegant but comfortable, not a showplace but a home—a place where Nick had always been made to feel right at home.
“Something’s wrong,” Carrie whispered.
Nick reached for her hand and held it between both of his. He sat that way, with Carrie on one side of him and Sam on the other, until they heard the others come in through the kitchen.
Hand-in-hand, John’s parents, Graham and Laine O’Connor, entered the room with their son Terry and daughter Lizbeth trailing behind them. Graham and Laine, both nearly eighty, were as fit and trim as people half their age. They had snow-white hair and year-round tans from spending most of their time riding horses. When they saw Nick, they lit up with delight.
He released Carrie’s hand and got up to greet them both with hugs. Terry shook his hand and Lizbeth went up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek. He introduced them to Sam.
“What’re you doing here?” Graham asked. “Isn’t the vote today?”
Nick glanced down at the floor, took a second to summon the fortitude to say what needed to be said, and then looked back at them. “Come sit down.”
“What’s going on, Nick?” Laine asked in her lilting Southern accent, refusing to be led to a seat. “You don’t look right. Is something wrong with John?”
Her mother’s intuition had beaten him to the punch.
“I’m afraid so.”
Laine gasped. Her husband reached for her hand, and right before Nick’s eyes, the formidable Graham O’Connor wilted.
“He was late for work today.”
“That’s nothing new,” Lizbeth said with a sisterly snicker. “He’ll be late for his own funeral.”
Nick winced at her choice of words. “We couldn’t reach him, so I went over there to wake him up.”
“Damned foolish of him to be sleeping late on a day like this,” Graham huffed.
“We thought so, too,” Nick conceded, his stomach clutching with nausea and despair. “When I got there…”
“What?” Laine whispered, reaching out to grip Nick’s arm. “What?”
Nick couldn’t speak over the huge lump that lodged in his throat.
Sam stood up. “Senator, Mrs. O’Connor, I’m so very sorry to have to tell you that your son’s been murdered.”
Nick knew if he lived forever, he would never forget the keening wail that came from John’s mother as Sam’s words registered. He reached for Laine when it seemed like she might faint. Instead, she folded like a house of cards into his arms.
Carrie kept saying, “No, no, no,” over and over again.
With Lizbeth crying softly behind him and Terry’s eyes glassy with tears and shock, Graham turned to Sam. “How?”
“He was stabbed in his bed.”
Nick, who continued to hold the sobbing Laine, was grateful that Sam didn’t tell them the rest. He eased Laine down to the sofa.
“Who would want to kill my John? My beautiful, sweet John?”
“We’re going to find out,” Sam said.
“Sam is the lead detective on the case,” Nick told them.
“Excuse me,” Graham mumbled as he turned and rushed from the room.
“Go with him, Terry,” Laine said. “Please go with him.”
Terry followed his father.
Lizbeth sat down on the arm of the sofa next to her mother. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “What will I tell the kids?”
Painfully aware of how close John was to his niece and nephew, Nick looked up at her with sympathy.
“That he had an accident,” Laine said, wiping her face. “Not that he was killed. You can’t tell them that.”
“No,” Lizbeth agreed. “I can’t.”
Laine raised her head off Nick’s shoulder. “Where is he now?” she asked Sam.
“With the medical examiner.”
“I want to see him.” Laine wiped furiously at the tears that continued to spill down her unlined cheeks. “I want to see my child.”
“I’ll arrange it tomorrow,” Sam said.
Laine turned to Nick. “There’ll be a funeral befitting a United States senator.”
“Of course.”
“You’ll see to it personally.”
“Anything you want or need, Laine. You only have to ask.”
She clasped his hand and looked at him with shattered eyes. “Who would do this, Nick? Who would do this to our John?”
“I’ve been asking myself that question for hours and can’t think of anyone.”
“Whoever it is, Mrs. O’Connor, we’ll find them,” Sam assured her.
“See that you do.” As if she couldn’t bear to sit there another second, Laine got up and made for the door with Lizbeth and Carrie following her. At the doorway, Laine turned back to Nick. “You know you’re welcome to stay. You’re a part of this family, and you belong here. You always will.”
Touched, Nick said, “Thank you, but I’m going to head back to the city. I need to spend some time with the staff.”
“Please tell them how much we appreciate their hard work for John.”
“I will. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Mrs. O’Connor,” Sam said, rising to face Laine. “I’m so sorry to have to do this now, but in this kind of investigation, the first twenty-four hours are critical…”
“We’ll do whatever we can do to find the person who did this to John,” Laine said, her tear-stained face sagging with grief.
“I need to know the whereabouts of you and the other members of your family between the hours of ten p.m. last night and nine o’clock this morning.”
“You aren’t serious,” Laine said stiffly.
“If I’m going to rule out any family involvement—”
“Fine,” Laine snapped. “The senator and I entertained friends until about eleven.” She glanced at Carrie, who nodded in agreement.
“I’ll need the name and number of your friends.” She handed Laine her card. “You can leave the information on my voicemail. And after eleven?”
“We went to bed.”
“You, too, ma’am?” Sam asked Carrie.
“I watched television in my room until about two. I couldn’t sleep.�
�
“And you?” Sam asked Lizbeth.
Her expression rife with indignation, Lizbeth said, “I was at home in McLean with my husband and children.”
“I’ll need a phone number for your husband.”
Lizbeth met Sam’s even gaze with a steely stare before she stalked from the room and returned a minute later with a business card.
“Thank you,” Sam said.
The three women left the room.
“You really had to do that today?” Nick asked Sam when they were alone. “Right now?”
“Yes, I really did,” she said, looking pained. “I have to play by the book on something this high profile. Surely you can understand that.”
“Of course I do, but they just found out their son and brother was murdered. You could’ve given them fifteen minutes to absorb that before you went into attack cop mode.”
“I have a job to do, Nick. When I make an arrest, I’m sure they’ll be relieved that his killer is off the streets.”
“What the hell difference will that make to them? Will it bring John back?”
“I need to get back to the city. Are you coming?”
Taking a long last look around the room, remembering so many happy times there with John, Nick followed her out the front door.
CHAPTER 4
Feeling as if the world had quite simply come to an end, Graham O’Connor leaned against a white split-rail fence to look out over the acres that made up his estate but saw nothing through a haze of tears and grief. John is dead. John is dead. John is dead.
From the moment Carrie called them to say Nick was waiting at the house, Graham had known. With the most important vote of John’s career scheduled for that day, there was only one reason Nick would have come. Graham had known, just as he had always known there was something shameful about a father loving one of his children more than the others. But John had been extraordinary. From the very earliest hours of his youngest child’s life, Graham had seen in him the special something that inspired so many others to love him, too.
His face wet with tears, Graham wondered how this could have happened.
“Dad?”
The sound of his older son’s voice filled Graham with disappointment and despair. God help him for thinking such a thing, but if he’d had to lose one of his sons why couldn’t it have been Terry instead of John?
Terry’s hand landed on Graham’s shoulder, squeezed. “What can I do for you?”
“Nothing.” Graham wiped his face.
“Senator?”
Graham turned to find Nick and the pretty detective approaching them.
“We’re going back to Washington,” she said, “but before we do I need to confirm your whereabouts last night. After ten.”
He somehow managed to contain the hot blast of rage that cut through him at the implication that he could have had something to do with the death of the one he loved above all others—except for Laine, of course. “I was right here with my wife. We had friends over, played some bridge and went to bed around eleven or so.”
She seemed satisfied with his answer and turned next to Terry. “Mr. O’Connor?”
“I was…ah…with a friend.”
Terry’s womanizing had gotten completely out of hand since a DUI derailed his political aspirations weeks before he was supposed to declare his candidacy for the Senate. It made Graham sick that Terry was no closer to settling down and having a family at forty-two than he had been at twenty-two.
“I’ll need a name and number,” the detective said.
Terry’s cheeks turned bright red, and Graham knew what was coming next. “I…ah…”
“He doesn’t know her name,” Graham said, casting a disgusted look at his son.
“I can find out,” Terry said quickly.
“That’d be a good idea,” the detective said.
“It’s not a coincidence, is it, that this happened on the eve of the vote?” Graham said.
“We’re not ruling anything out,” the detective said.
“Check Minority Leader Stenhouse,” Graham said. “He hates my guts and would begrudge my son any kind of success.”
“Why does he hate you?” she asked.
“They were bitter rivals for decades,” Nick told her. “Stenhouse has done everything he could to block the immigration bill, but it was going to pass anyway.”
“Take a good look at him,” Graham said, his chest tight with rage and his voice breaking. “He’s capable of anything. Taking my son from me would give him great joy.”
“Can you think of anyone else?” she asked. “Anyone who might’ve tangled with your son, either on a personal or professional level?”
Graham shook his head. “Everyone loved John, but I’ll think about it and let you know if anyone comes to mind.”
Nick stepped forward to embrace him.
Graham wrapped his arms around the young man he loved like a son. “Find out who did this, Nick. Find out.”
“I will. I promise.”
As Nick and Sam walked away, Graham noted the hunched shoulders of his son’s closest friend and trusted aide. To Terry he said, “Get the name of your bimbo, and get it now. Don’t show your face around here again until you do.”
“Yes, sir.”
*
On the way back to Washington, Nick checked his BlackBerry and read through the statement his office had drafted.
With tremendous sorrow we announce that our colleague and friend, Senator John Thomas O’Connor, Democrat of Virginia, was found murdered in his Washington home this morning. After Senator O’Connor failed to arrive for work, his chief of staff, Nicholas Cappuano, went to the senator’s home to check on him. Mr. Cappuano found the senator dead. At the request of the Metropolitan Police, we’ll have no further statement on the details of the senator’s death other than to say we will do everything within our power to assist in the investigation. Subsequent information on the investigation will come from the police.
We will make it our mission to ensure passage of the landmark immigration legislation Senator O’Connor worked so hard to bring to the Senate floor and to continue his work on behalf of children, families and the aged.
Our hearts and prayers are with the senator’s parents, Senator and Mrs. Graham O’Connor, his brother Terry, sister Lizbeth, brother-in-law Royce, niece Emma and nephew Adam. Funeral arrangements are incomplete but will be announced in the next few days. We ask that you respect the privacy of the O’Connor family at this difficult time.
Nick nodded with approval and read it again before he turned to Sam. “Can I run this by you?”
“Sure.” She listened intently as he read the statement to her. “Sounds like they covered every base.”
“The part about the investigation was okay?”
“Yes, it’s fine.”
Nick placed a call to Christina. “Hey, green light on the statement. Go ahead and get it out.”
Christina replied with a deep, pained sigh. “This’ll make it official.”
“Tell Trevor to just read it and get out of there. No questions.”
“Got it.”
“You guys did a great job. Thank you.”
“It was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“I’m sure.”
“So, um, how’d it go with his parents?”
“Horrible.”
“Same thing with the staff. People are taking it really hard.”
“I’m on my way back. I’ll be in soon.”
“We’ll be here.”
Nick ended the call.
“Are you all right?” Sam asked.
“I’m fine,” he said stiffly, still pissed that she had talked alibis with the O’Connors so soon.
“I was just doing my job.”
“Your job sucks.”
“Yes, a lot of times it does.”
“Do you ever get used to telling people their loved ones have been murdered?”
“N
o, and I hope I never do.”
As bone-deep exhaustion began to set in, he put his head back against the seat. “I appreciated you saying the words for me back there. I just couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
She glanced over at him. “You were very good with them.”
Surprised by the unexpected compliment, Nick forced a weak smile. “I was in uncharted waters, that’s for sure.”
“You’re close to them.”
“They’re family to me.”
“What does your own family think of that?”
They hadn’t taken the time to compare life stories the first time they met. They’d been too busy tearing each other’s clothes off. “I don’t have much of a family. I was born to parents who were still in high school and was raised by my grandmother. She passed away a few years ago.”
“What about your parents?”
“They breezed in and out of my life when I was a kid.”
“And now?”
“Let’s see, my mother is married for the third time and was living in Cleveland the last time I heard from her, which was a couple of years ago. My father is married to a woman who’s younger than me, and they have three-year-old twins. He lives in Baltimore. I see them once in a while, but he’s hardly a father to me. He’s only fifteen years older than me.”
Her silence made him realize she was waiting for him to say more.
“I remember the first weekend I spent with the O’Connors. I thought families like theirs only existed on TV.”
“They always seemed almost too good to be true.”
“They’re not, though. They’re real people with real faults and problems, but they have such a strong belief in giving back and in public service that it’s impossible to be around them for any length of time and not be sucked in. They changed my whole career plan.”
“What were you going to do?”
“I’d considered accounting or finance, but after a few meals at Graham O’Connor’s table, I was bitten by the political bug.”
“What’s he like? Graham?”
“He’s complicated and thoughtful and demanding. He loves his family and his country. He’s fiercely patriotic and loyal.”
“You love him.”
“More than any man I’ve ever known—except his son.”
