by Rachel Lee
"And I have to be at the airport at seven," Grant said. "Sorry I'm late."
"Rot rate," Art said, now reaching his arms out with feigned clumsiness to take the girls' bags. "Right ron rime ror reakfast. Root Root Root Roops!"
"Fruit Loops!" Belle said. "My favorite!"
After the girls had scrambled inside, Grant extended his hand. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate this, Art. The girls need to get back into their routine."
Art's face grew serious as he took Grant's hand. "So do you. The work will do you good."
"It probably will, but I'm not sure my heart is in it right now. Not yet."
"Grant, your heart has always been in everything you do. Once you get back into the job, your heart will follow. That's who you are."
Grant nodded. "I suppose so. It'll be hard, though. For everyone. I gave the girls a calling card and showed them how to use it. Here are my private lines at home, my office and my cell phone. I also wrote down the number of their pediatrician, just in case."
Art took the slip of paper. "They won't need the calling card. I don't mind paying for the calls. And I'll have them in bed by eight every night."
Grant listened to the din from the dining room. The Fruit Loops were already in play, he surmised. He smiled. "Not that they'll go to sleep."
"They'll settle in," Art said. "The girls will be fine. And you need to get on to the airport."
"Last chance for hugs!" Grant called.
It seemed to take a moment for the sound to reach the girls, but then Belle and Cathy came tumbling out into his arms. "Mmmmmmm…tight hugs from my babies. Daddy's going to miss you. You call whenever you want, and be nice to Uncle Art."
"Gorilla Art!" Belle said. "I'll give him a banana!"
Grant laughed. It seemed as if it had been forever since he laughed. "Be nice to Gorilla Art. I'll talk to you two tonight."
He clung to them for a moment longer, soaking up their affection and love like a camel drinking water before a desert journey. Finally they let go. "Do your homework. And I'll see you this weekend."
"I love you, Daddy," Cathy said, squeezing his hand one last time.
She might as well have squeezed his heart. "I love you, too, Catherine Suzanne Lawrence. And I love you, Belle Marie Lawrence. Be good girls."
"I'm always good," Belle said with a nervous giggle. "Remember?"
"Then be you," Grant said, giving each of them one last kiss.
It wasn't enough. As he drove away, he watched them pile back into Art's house. It would never be enough. Next year he would move them to Washington with him, put them in school there. He didn't want them this far away. But for now, they needed the stability of their school. Their needs came first.
Even when it hurt.
9
Karen looked at her boss over the in-and out-boxes, the never-used ashtray, the stack of file folders, the paper-clip holder and cup full of pens. Lieutenant Simpson looked back at her with a world-weariness that could only come from too many years working homicides, too much disrupted family life and too much being shut off from the world of goodness.
Cops were pretty much an insular lot, because almost nobody who'd never worked the job could understand them…including their wives. But that took its toll, as Karen was finding. Because when you saw all the ugliness of the world and very little of its goodness, you started to get skewed. Or get soul-sick. She was beginning to feel soul-sick. She suspected Simpson had long since worked his way to numb.
"Okay," he said. "Given that the investigation of the senator's wife's death was a little…interrupted, what are you expecting me to do about it? The fact is, the woman was killed by a drunk driver. Where she was coming from and why is God's business and the senator's, not ours."
"I know that," Karen said. "I don't want to rake it up. I don't even think it's related. Well…" She hesitated. "Let me put that another way. Somebody is raking it up. And it could prove to be relevant if someone is out to get the senator for some reason."
"If they're out to get the senator, why would they kill his housekeeper?"
"Because she got in the way. Look, the files were jimmied."
He didn't say anything for a moment, just leaned back in his executive chair with a creak of springs and pondered. "Okay, the files were jimmied. The murderer was there for something besides your typical money-jewels-electronics scenario. Most likely it was something political. But, bear with me, Sweeney. I'm not connecting that with the DUI death of the senator's wife."
Karen knew she was making a hash of it. Too little sleep had left her a little bleary, but not so bleary that she could ignore the snake of suspicion that was twisting around in the back of her mind.
"The way I see it is this, Lieutenant." She waited for his nod. "Somebody is raking up that DUI as if there was something ugly behind it. Something the senator didn't want us to know. Something that could damage the senator."
"Okay. Go on."
"It's my thinking that if we can find out who's behind this muck-raking, we might find out who was behind the break-in and the Reese woman's murder."
"Ah, the light goes on." He leaned forward. "Continue."
"Okay, so we assume a political motive and the involvement, therefore, of a political enemy. Then…" she hesitated. "I'm hearing other stuff."
"Such as?"
"The cane growers' association—most specifically Randall Youngblood—is involved somehow."
"Oh, hell. You do know how to make my day. The spotlight and headaches weren't already big enough on this case." He leaned back again, rubbing his chin. "Well, I do know that Youngblood is opposed to that bill the senator is trying to pass. But that's so obvious that it's too obvious, if you take my meaning."
"I do, Lieutenant. That's why I'm in here. Youngblood would be an obvious suspect for a political vendetta. And the indication is that someone in his group is behind the rumors. But I don't see him getting involved in burglary and murder."
"Nobody saw Nixon involved in Watergate at first." He rubbed his chin again and sighed. "Shit."
"Well, it might be that someone is taking advantage of what happened to taint Youngblood, as well." Karen allowed herself a sigh. "I don't like politics."
"Not when it gets this tangled. Okay, so you suspect that not only is the senator being tarred, but someone is trying to tar Youngblood, as well?"
"I'm getting that feeling."
"I can't imagine who would want to bring both of them down."
"Me neither," Karen admitted. "But something isn't right. And if it's not one person trying to bring them both down, then they're trying to bring each other down, and somewhere in that mess is the person who committed the murder."
"Maybe. Or maybe someone on each side of that bill is merely an opportunist."
Karen nodded. "Entirely possible. But we're still faced with the fact that the only apparent motive for the initial burglary was political."
"Yeah. Where's the senator?"
"He flew back to Washington."
"And Youngblood?"
"He's up there, too, to lobby against S.R. 52."
"Hmm." Simpson closed his eyes for a minute, thinking. "You know," he said finally, "if there's a politico involved in this mess, the best place to look would be Washington."
"Shall I contact the police up there?"
"Hell no," said Simpson, leaning forward so suddenly that his chair thumped against the floor. "You're going up there."
Karen was taken aback. Her heart thudded with sudden anxiety. "Why? I don't know anyone up there. I wouldn't be any good."
"What makes you think the D.C. cops know anyone in political circles? Hell, Sweeney, nowhere do cops move in circles like that. You wouldn't be at any disadvantage."
He stabbed a finger in her direction. "Yes, you'll be good. Because the senator is the center of this maelstrom, and I can't think of anyone better to introduce you around to the people who might be trying to sink his boat."
"But, sir, I have other case
s…."
"For now they're on Previn's desk. I'll let you know when I've got this all arranged."
Karen left Simpson's office feeling more uneasy than she had in recent memory. When it came to Senator Grant Lawrence, she wasn't exactly detached. And she didn't see how hanging around with him in Washington was going to help her be any more objective.
But she also knew better than to argue with Simpson.
"What's up?" Previn asked as she returned to her desk.
"I got my marching orders. Simpson wants me to go to Washington and sniff around for a few days." Karen shrugged. "The Reese murder does look political. So I guess it makes sense for me to go up there. But hobnobbing with the rich and powerful isn't my thing."
Previn nodded. "Linda would love that."
Karen watched his face sag. "Any chance you can work things out?"
"I don't know. I'm…let's see." He ticked off points on his fingers. "I'm too distant. I work too many hours. I bring my work home, emotionally if not actually. And I'm a lousy fuck."
"She actually said that?"
He picked at an invisible speck on his desk blotter. "She said she's been faking for years, just to get it over with. She's been talking to some guy online, she says. He knows how to satisfy a woman, she says."
"Geez, Dave. She doesn't hold much back, does she?"
He was quiet for a moment, then finally looked up. "So when do you go to D.C.?"
"I'm not sure yet, but it'll be soon. I need to go home and pack. Power suits, the lieutenant said. Like my off-the-rack stuff is going to look powerful among Brooks Brothers, Armanis and other tailored things."
He smiled weakly. "Knock 'em dead."
As she looked at the battered shell of a man, she wondered whether he would find justice for Stacy Wiggins.
"The Wiggins case," she said after a moment, giving him something to sink his teeth into, something to make him feel useful and important.
"What about it?" he asked dully.
"Well, she owned a dance studio. Her one employee, a woman named Alissa Jurgen, was in love with her, but Stacy was straight."
Previn perked a little. "Hm."
"Exactly. Do a background on the school and Jurgen. Find out if Jurgen stands to gain anything from Stacy's death."
"Will do."
For the moment, anyway, Previn looked better than he had in days.
* * *
Elaine Pragle smiled as she opened the door for Grant. "Good to have you back, Grant."
"Good to be back," he said. From the sounds in the back of her town house, the party was already underway. "Just tell me you didn't hire a stripper for Mitchum."
She laughed. "Ahh, that famed Grant Lawrence wit. No, just lugubrious congeniality tonight."
"In short, drinks and business."
"Bingo," she said.
He'd been to her town house once before, in the whirlwind after his first election. They had both been freshmen senators, and both had campaigned on environmental issues. Jerry Connally had said she would be a good ally to have, and he'd been right.
If he'd authored S.R. 52 in his first year, it would have gone down in flames. But over the past eight years, he and Elaine had worked to collect a bloc of other colleagues from coastal states by maneuvering for shared committee assignments, co-sponsoring bills, offering a carrot here, a carrot there. It had been a long, slow road. And way too much work to let slip away this late in the game.
Elaine ushered him to the backyard, where she'd had festive paper lamps hung around the pool deck. Underwater lighting added to the atmosphere. Along the stone walls that enclosed the freshly-cut lawn, spring flowers burst with fresh color and life.
"Our golden boy is here," she said by way of introduction as they stepped through the sliding glass doors. "Now the real fun can start."
Rick Galloway turned and lifted a glass of his favorite Irish whiskey. "Welcome home, Grant."
Oliver Falden offered a cautious smile. "Are you going to help us wrangle one last night of fun out of Mitchum before he goes and gets himself tied down?"
"That's the plan," Grant said. He turned to the senator from Louisiana. "Congratulations, Louis. I hear she's a Baton Rouge beauty."
Mitchum took his hand. "Thanks, Grant. Is there anything you don't hear?"
Grant chuckled. "It always pays to keep your ear to the ground and your nose to the wind."
"And you always were the master contortionist," Elaine said. "What can I get you to drink?"
"A glass of Baileys would go down well, thanks."
"My favorite," said Harrison Rice, lifting his own glass of the creamy liquid. Then his slow, Alabama drawl softened. "I'm sorry about Abby, Grant. She was a great woman."
Grant nodded. "Thanks, Harry. We were very touched by the flowers."
"That detective, the one on TV," Rice said. "Is she good? Abby deserves the best."
"She seems to know her business. I sure wouldn't want to be on her bad side."
"Good." Rice patted his shoulder. "Okay, enough gloom and doom. Let's tell our friend Mitchum what he's in for in the way of marital bliss."
But of course, as usually happened at these "parties," it wasn't long before they settled around a table on the pool deck and the serious conversation began. The purpose of these affairs, whatever excuse was used for them, eventually came down to deal-making and problem-solving. As a rule, the senators were so tied up during the day that face-to-face communications came after hours. In fact, Grant sometimes thought that fifty percent of the real work was done in committee and the other fifty percent was done at social gatherings.
"Grant," said Falden, "I just wanted to offer my sympathies again. Tragic, about Abby."
"Thanks. We appreciated the flowers."
"Sorry I couldn't be there for the funeral. My wife had already committed us."
Grant nodded. "Thanks. I knew you were there in spirit." Which wasn't true. He knew Falden better than that, but polite fictions had to be preserved. But he also didn't want to spend the evening talking about Abby. His grief was a private thing, and if people kept bringing it up, it might become a public thing. And as he knew too well, tears were considered a weakness in men. There'd be a hundred sharks ready to pounce if Senator Grant Lawrence broke down in public, and some of them were here right now.
"Anyway," Falden said, "I wanted to talk to you about S.R. 52. You know, Randall Youngblood is making a very good case for rewriting the bill to slow things down."
Grant nodded. "I've heard." He knew Falden was speaking for Mitchum, Halloway and Rice, who were also wavering. He felt the same adrenaline kick as when he'd stepped into a courtroom that first time. The backyard moved into softer focus as his eyes bored into Falden's face. Game time. This was his life, his milieu, his bread and butter.
Falden continued. "There are valid concerns. All of our states rely on agriculture. So does the whole country."
"I don't want to kill agribusiness," Grant said forcefully, yet still within the limits of the social occasion. It was a fine tightrope to walk. "And the effects of the bill would not be as dire as Youngblood would have us believe. Trust me, Oliver, I've had studies done. I'll be glad to send you some fresh copies for review." A veiled reminder that Falden already had the information in his files, even though he probably hadn't bothered to review it.
Elaine spoke, playing devil's advocate. "I read the studies, Grant. Some of the fertilizer-intensive farmers would be hurt. Production would drop. Prices would go up."
Grant nodded, and Elaine continued. "But we need to look at some other things, Oliver. Like the displacement of fisheries because of the fertilizer runoff. The increase in red algae blooms, which also cause high fish mortality, not to mention human health hazards such as asthma and severe allergic reactions."
Oliver nodded as if he'd read all of that, too. "But we can't just kill the farmers. Hell, farmers are like mom, apple pie and the American flag."
"I'm not proposing we kill them," Grant said, keeping
his tone friendly and understanding. "You need to come down to my part of the world sometime, Oliver. I'd love to show you around. But until then, let me tell you what's happening."
Oliver nodded. "I'm willing to listen."
"At least as well as you've listened to Youngblood," Elaine said dryly. The others laughed warily.
Grant ignored the aside, keeping Falden pinned with his gaze. His heart was drumming the steady beat of battle. "The Everglades was once justifiably called 'The River of Grass.' Most of south Florida was covered by it. It was home to thousands of species, some of which are now facing extinction, like the Florida panther. It also provided freshwater runoff into the Bay of Florida and a huge section of the Gulf of Mexico. Then Lake Okeechobee was dammed, and huge tracts of the Glades were drained for agriculture. Goodbye, freshwater runoff."
Oliver nodded. "But…"
"Wait a moment, please," Grant said, aware that he had everyone's attention and unwilling to relinquish it. He had to hammer his points while their attention was fully on him. He leaned forward a bit, pressing the point by his physical presence. "The loss of that freshwater flow to the Gulf was bad enough. Add to it the nitrates from fertilizers—hundreds of tons of fertilizers each year, I might add—and you shatter a complex and vitally important ecosystem. The water is cloudy, the coral reefs are dying, and the fin fish and shellfish populations are plummeting."
Oliver nodded. "But we mustn't be hasty. These farmers, they tell me—"
"S.R. 52 is a very cautious bill," Grant said, sitting back, forcing himself to appear relaxed, when inside his muscles were screaming for action. "It compensates farmers for lost yields caused by the reduction of fertilizers. It has price supports for major crops. It defers wetland reclamation over the next twenty years. And it has grant money for research into site-persistent fertilizers—which will reduce runoff and be more economical in the long run—and advanced hydroponics, so they can still grow crops in reclaimed wetlands. We're not cutting their throats, Oliver."
"There are no price supports for tobacco," Galloway said. "Say what you will, but it's a legal product, and it's a big chunk of my state's economy. The growers are getting crunched by taxes, and now you want to cut back on how much they're allowed to fertilize. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I'm up for re-election next year, and I can't fight off Williamson without the tobacco growers."
