“How sad,” she said. “You didn’t go back to school in Minnesota?”
“No. My mother and sister really put the pressure on me to stay in Florida and go to school there, but I fought until…”
She waited for him to finish. His expression had saddened, but he snapped out of it, grinned, and said, “I decided they were right. I was now the man of the house and they needed me there. Like I said, Laura, a long story that turned out okay. Staying in the Tampa area was the best thing could have happened to me. But enough of my life story, Laura. Another drink?”
What he hadn’t included in the tale was that he’d been set to return to Minnesota for his sophomore year when he met Charlene in Florida.
“Does your wife spend much time in Washington?” Laura asked, despite already knowing that his wife spent as little time there as possible.
He became pensive before saying, “No, Charlene has never liked Washington.” He chuckled, but it came out more a snort than a laugh. “As a matter of fact, she’s never liked that I ran for Congress and won.”
“That’s—well, that must make it difficult for you.”
“It certainly does. We’ve grown apart since I became a congressman. We live very separate lives these days. She has her art and the kids, and I—I try and make the best of it. She comes to D.C. now and then if I need her on my arm for an event, and she’s good about campaigning, but I know she hates it.”
“How long have you and Mrs. Gannon been married?” Laura asked.
A small smile crossed his face. “Are you good at keeping secrets?”
“I think so.”
“Charlene and I have been married long enough for the bloom to be off the rose. We’re heading for a divorce.”
His directness startled her, and she didn’t know what to say.
“No big deal,” he said. “It happens to fifty percent of marriages. The important thing is that we do it honorably and that we all come out of it whole, including the kids, especially the kids. Charlene is a terrific woman and we’ve had a great marriage. But sometimes life gets in the way. Charlene’s not well and…”
“I’m so sorry,” Laura said.
“Nothing life-threatening, but of concern.” He reached across the table and placed his hand on hers. “This is just between us, right?”
“Of course.”
“Dessert?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Keeping that gorgeous figure in shape?”
“I try.”
“And you’ve succeeded. Let’s go.”
As they drove back into the District, Laura was bombarded by a jumble of thoughts. She recalled conversations she’d had with girls in the dorm about their preferences in men. While most disagreed, Laura and a few others supported the view that older men were vastly superior to men their own age as lovers. Not that they had direct knowledge to back up their contention. But the consensus was that older men, including those who were married or had been married, made better lovers because they were experienced and more interested in pleasing the woman than themselves, unlike the young lovers they’d had in college who needed to prove their manhood. Older men had already proved themselves and approached sex from a different prospective.
Those late-night female gabfests, fueled by liquor smuggled into the dorm and punctuated by giggles and four-letter words, were fun. But Laura didn’t have any basis for her claim that older men were better in bed. One student claimed to have had a brief sexual relationship with an older professor who, she claimed, was wrinkled and didn’t have stamina. Another participant in these discussions, an African-American woman, stated that she would always seek out younger men no matter how old she got.
Yes. those sophomoric conversations were fun.
But as Gannon navigated traffic, Laura couldn’t help wondering whether she was getting close to proving her untried thesis that older men were better.
CHAPTER
6
A WEEK LATER
Brixton went through his two-day training course to prepare him for conducting background checks on individuals who’d applied for government posts. He was given a dozen files and went to work on the first, a thirty-three-year-old man, William Wilkens, who until recently had been employed by a software company and now sought a job with the Department of Homeland Security. Brixton contacted the five references provided by the job seeker, not expecting to uncover anything damaging. Why give as a reference someone who is likely to say bad things about you?
It was the second phase of the background check that sometimes tripped up people. Brixton canvassed the applicant’s neighborhood, questioning those who knew the man. While most had positive things to say, one tenant in his apartment building was less sanguine.
“My name is Robert Brixton,” he told an attractive young woman who lived down the hall. He showed her his identification, which seemed to overcome the skepticism she’d exhibited when he knocked on her door. “Your neighbor, Mr. Wilkens, has applied for a job with the federal government and I’m checking out people who know him.”
“Oh?”
“I’m sure you know Mr. Wilkens, living so close to him. What sort of guy is he?”
“In what way?”
Brixton gave his best noncommittal shrug and smiled as he replied, “Is he an honest person, pays his rent on time, things like that?”
“I guess he pays his rent because he’s still here.”
“That makes sense.”
She seemed unsure whether to say more.
“How does he get along with his neighbors?” Brixton asked.
“Okay, I suppose.” Again, there was hesitation before she added, “Except for—”
“Except for what?”
“Well, I don’t like to say bad things about another person, but—”
“But what?” Brixton said, annoyed at her coyness.
“Bill can’t be trusted.”
Brixton’s eyebrows went up. “Why do you say that?”
“Because he doesn’t always tell the truth.”
“He’s lied to you?”
“Oh, you bet he has, plenty of times.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“No.” A tiny smile crossed her lips. “It’s personal.”
“Ah, come on,” Brixton said, “you can’t just drop a bomb like that and not explain.”
“As I said, it’s personal.”
“He owes you money?”
“Let’s just say that you can’t always believe what Bill says,” she said with finality. “Anything else you’d like to know?”
“Not unless you have something more to say about him.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Thanks for your time.”
“It’s okay. Actually, he’s kind of a nice guy except for—”
“Except that he’s a liar.”
“You said it.”
“Have a good day.”
Brixton got in his car and made a note in William Wilkens’s file that a neighbor, a young woman, called him a liar, but added that it was his belief that she might have been talking about an affair gone sour. He grinned as he wrote it. If men were disqualified from government work because they lied, especially to women, Washington, D.C., would be a ghost town, including Congress.
He’d learned from one of Wilkens’s references that the job applicant was particularly fond of Clyde’s on M Street, in Georgetown, one of D.C.’s venerable watering holes. Brixton stopped in at five and found a spot at the bar next to a man busily engaged in enjoying a bowl of chili and a beer. After ordering a martini, Brixton struck up a conversation.
“Has Bill Wilkens been in lately?” he asked nonchalantly.
The man’s spoon was halfway to his mouth. He lowered it into the bowl and said, “Haven’t seen Bill in the past few days, although he comes in here two, three times a week.” He laughed. “You know Bill, a real creature of habit, always has his veggie burger and a glass of Blue Moon Belgian.”
“Veg
gie burger?” Brixton said.
“Don’t know how he can eat those things. My motto is if you’re goin’ to have a burger, have a burger, a real one. Moderation’s the key. Not too many burgers, but if you’re goin’ to have one—”
“My sentiments exactly,” said Brixton.
Brixton’s bar mate took another spoonful of chili before saying, “Hope he lands that job he’s after with Homeland Security. Course, why anybody would want to work for the government is beyond me, but to each his own. Am I right?”
“You sure are. I always wondered why Bill left his job with the software company.”
“Got downsized,” was the reply. “Just another word for fired.”
Brixton finished his drink, told the man that he enjoyed talking with him, and paid his tab.
“I’ll tell Bill you were asking for him,” the man said as he used a piece of bread to wipe up the remains in the bowl. “What’d you say your name was?”
“Bill wouldn’t remember me,” Brixton said. “Good talking to you.”
Back in his car, he noted what the man had said about Wilkens being downsized. Wilkens had stated on his employment application: “Resigned current job in order to find more meaningful employment that involves public service.” The attempt to verify this with his previous employer resulted in the company giving only Wilkens’s dates of employment, which Brixton knew was a common employer response due to fear of being sued for saying negative things about a former employee.
Brixton interviewed four other people who knew Wilkens, none of whom said anything negative about him. His female neighbor had called him a liar, but Brixton chalked that up to a woman scorned. He deleted his comment about her and closed the file by writing: “Background check indicates nothing that would preclude hiring the applicant,” although he was tempted to add that Wilkens liked veggie burgers, which Brixton considered a serious character flaw.
Brixton dialed his office number and asked Flo about his calls and e-mails.
“Nothing important,” she said. “Oh, you did get a call from Detective Peterson at MPD regarding the recording you did of the lovely lady who wanted her hubby killed. He wants to arrange a time for you to come in and add to the official statement you gave. By the way, did you read the story about her in today’s Post?”
“No.”
“The judge set bail at a half million. She claims that she’s the victim of entrapment.”
“That’ll never fly. I’ll call Peterson when I get back.”
“How did it go with the Wilkens background check?”
“Good. I finished up the interviews.”
“Where are you?”
“I just left Clyde’s in Georgetown.”
“You’re supposed to be working, Robert.” She’d slipped into her officious mode.
“I am. I met a guy at the bar who knows Wilkens. He was helpful. I’m going to swing by that bar in southeast where Augie hangs out before I come back.”
“Why?”
“To make sure he gets the message that if he ever refers anybody to me again as a hit man, I’ll kill him.”
“Jesus, Robert, that makes as much sense as—”
“Didn’t come out right. Anyway, I’ll be back as soon as I see him. Love you.”
* * *
The bar where Augie often hung out was dark and dingy, like the neighborhood itself. Brixton was pleased to see that his former snitch was there, ensconced at the end of the sticky bar, half hidden behind a gumball machine. Augie considered himself a ladies’ man, which might be true if the lady didn’t mind body odor and a couple of missing teeth. He also had a fertile imagination about who he was. Some days, depending upon whom he was talking to, he was a descendant of European royalty and liked to be called Count. Other days he claimed to be the long-lost nephew of Margaret Thatcher, complete with what passed for a British accent. In other words, he was nuts, but charming in his own warped way.
“Brixton, my man,” Augie said when Brixton took the stool next to him.
“How’ve you been, Augie?”
“Couldn’t be better, couldn’t be better. You’re here to pay me a referral fee for sending that knockout of a broad with evil in her heart to you.” He furtively looked around at the otherwise empty bar. “How’d it go down?”
“It didn’t. She was arrested.”
“Her old man’s still alive?”
“Very much so, unless he got caught in the compactor on one of his garbage trucks.”
“Whew,” Augie said. “What happened?”
“Augie,” Brixton said, placing his hand on his arm, “it didn’t happen, because I wore a wire and turned her over to the nice folks at MPD.”
“You did what?”
“That’s why I’m here, Augie, to tell you that if you ever send anybody else to me because you say I’m a hit man, I’ll make it the truth and you’ll be my first victim.”
Augie started to protest, but Brixton quickly added, “And don’t ask again about a referral fee. You’re lucky I didn’t turn you in, too.”
Augie fell into a pout. “Geez,” he said, “I didn’t figure she’d take me seriously. I mean, I didn’t tell her that you were a hit man, just said that maybe you knew somebody, considering your background and all.”
“That’s not what she told me, Augie.”
“Then she’s a crazy, lying bitch.”
“The point is, Augie, you telling strangers in bars that I hire out to kill people is bad for my image. Understand?”
“Yeah, yeah, Brixton, only don’t come down hard on me. I’m not getting any younger, you know, got lots of aches and pains and prostate problems and—I’m just trying to make an honest buck.”
“You call arranging for a hit an honest buck?”
Augie gave him a gap-toothed smile and slapped his shoulder. “Hey, pal, no foul, no harm, huh? You say the bitch is in jail. That’s where she belongs. Glad her old man is still breathing. Look, pal, can you advance me a few bucks? Things are slow and I’m getting old and—”
Brixton stood. “We’ll forget about it, Augie, okay?” He motioned for the bartender, a heavyset, bald man dozing at the far end of the bar. “Hey,” Brixton said, “buy my friend here a drink.”
He tossed bills on the bar and handed Augie two twenties.
“Thanks, pal.”
“Be well, Augie.”
CHAPTER
7
Laura Bennett looked over at the sleeping Hal Gannon, congressman from Tampa, Florida, who’d scrunched his pillow up beneath his head and snored lightly. It was the second time since they’d had dinner together that she’d spent the night at his apartment. She was giddy with joy.
* * *
They’d gone through the mating dance following that dinner in Arlington. She’d accompanied him to the apartment, where he’d poured expensive wine, raised his glass, and said, “Here’s to being with the most beautiful intern in the world.”
She feigned embarrassment, but his words warmed her as much as the drink.
He’d put a CD on his stereo system, Timeless Ballads for Timeless Moments, a compilation of romantic songs performed by various jazz artists. Overhead lights had been left off; the only illumination came from a pair of Tiffany-style lamps. She’d kicked off her sandals and sat on the couch, her bare feet tucked beneath her, the drink held in two hands inches from her mouth. He joined her. He dipped his index finger into his wineglass and touched her lips.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I’m thinking about your wife and the problems you’re having in your marriage.”
“It happens to the best of couples,” he said, “and our marriage was terrific until it started falling apart.”
The phone rang.
“The machine will get it,” he said. But as his outgoing message was heard from the bedroom, he sprang to his feet and headed in that direction. Before he could reach it and lower the volume, Laura heard a woman’s voice say, “Hal, it’s Rachel. Why don’t
you return—?”
He came back into the living room and grinned. “It was nothing,” he said as he resumed his spot next to her. “Just congressional business. It can wait until morning. You were saying?”
“I was thinking about your marriage and the problems that you’re having. I’m sorry for you.”
“Don’t be,” he said, resting his hand on her knee. “We go through phases in our lives, Laura. My marriage to Charlene has been one phase, and a good one. But it’s time to move on. If we don’t move on, we stagnate. I suppose it’s the old glass half full, half empty concept. My glass is always half full. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
She drank. “Have you been—?” she asked.
“Have I been what?”
“Have you been seeing other women since your marriage started to unravel?”
“You’re getting personal.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry but—”
“No, no, no, it’s okay,” he said. “The truth is I have become friendly with a few other women, but it’s not what you’re thinking. Being alone here in D.C. can get under your skin. I suppose I’m only human needing a sympathetic female to hear my tales of congressional woe. If Charlene were here it might be different, but truth to tell she’s never cared about the problems I face as a U.S. congressman. I’m not blaming her. She was happy when I was practicing law back in Tampa and home every night. Different strokes for different folks. I certainly respect her views and opinions, but they just don’t match up with mine anymore.”
“I understand,” she said.
“And I appreciate that.” He placed his fingertips under her chin and turned her to him. At first his kiss was gentle, then it became more passionate. His hands went to her breasts, almost causing her to drop her glass and spill the wine.
From that point, the evening was preordained. The couch was abandoned in favor of the bed, covered in a white duvet and with red throw pillows. For Laura it was as though it wasn’t happening; there was a dreamlike quality to it, no thoughts, only emotions and sensations.
Margaret Truman's Internship in Murder Page 5
