by Rachel Lee
Grant wasn't sure Galloway could beat Williamson even with the tobacco growers, but he wasn't going to say that. Truth was, Galloway was caught in a squeeze between the far right and moderate wings of his party. North Carolina, like other southern states, had both gained and lost much in the transition to the New South. Old-time power brokers had to vie with newcomers who represented the high-tech industries—and with the population shift from the northeast, which brought educated, more liberal workers along with those high-tech firms.
Williamson was a virtual lock for the districts in the Triangle, named for the trio of top-notch universities in the Raleigh-Durham-Chapel Hill region. Galloway needed the agricultural and coastal districts, many of which were still recovering from a spate of Atlantic storms that had roared through and flooded last year's crops. Emergency relief funds were stretched tight after a series of tornadoes had ripped through Dallas and Ft. Worth, and a moderate earthquake had shaken Seattle.
Grant knew exactly what carrot to offer Galloway. He'd been holding it back as his ace-in-the-hole, one that he knew he had the power to bring off.
"Let's talk FEMA funding," Grant said, casting a quick glance over to Elaine.
She nodded and picked up the thread. "I have solid support for a nine percent increase in the FEMA budget. I can probably still push it through committee at eleven percent, but it'll be closer."
She looked at Galloway. "I'll go to the mat on that if you'll work with us. Go to your coastal fishing towns, Rick. Get a sound bite standing next to some guy whose nets came up empty and tell him you're working to protect his job. I'll bet you that'll change a few hearts in the Triangle. High-tech folks are strong on the environment, you know."
"And," Mitchum added dryly, "the yuppies love their fish and seafood. It's heart-healthy, in case you haven't heard."
A quiet round of chuckles greeted the sally, easing the tension, but only for a moment.
Galloway paused for a moment, as if calculating the voting districts in his head. "You get eleven percent on FEMA, and I'll push S.R. 52. But my farmers are going to need that emergency money. I have people who are still waiting to rebuild their homes. They've already lost one crop. I have to have something to take to them when I ask them to cut back on fertilizer and risk losing another."
Rice cut in. "Grant, when are you going to declare for the primaries?"
Now it was Grant's turn to pause. Part of him wanted to leap right into that fray, like the political fighter he was. Part of him feared the consequences, both politically and personally, if he failed. Presidential candidates were open season in the press. Reporters from all over the country would be digging through every moment of his life. The selection of a president was, as one commentator put it, trial by ordeal. Could he afford to inflict that on his girls?
"I don't know, Harry. Jerry's going to get back to me this week with a straw poll. I'll know more then."
"The party likes you," Rice said. "The people of Alabama like you. My numbers show you at nineteen percent over Phillips, and the others are barely a blip. My term's up next year, too. It'd be nice to have the next Democratic candidate for president shaking my hand."
Elaine smiled. "I think Grant would be happy to join you at a fund-raiser or two. Wouldn't you, Grant?"
Elaine had begun working on him to run for president within weeks of their last election. She was acting as if he was certain to run, and to win the nomination. As to the former, she was probably right. As to the latter, did she know something he didn't?
"I'd be happy to," he said. "We southern Democrats have to stick together."
Mitchum, although a Republican, was nodding now. Grant knew he was smart enough to see the handwriting on the wall. Only Falden remained stoic.
"I need better price supports," Falden said. "My farmers would go under on the soybean baselines you have. And like Rick, I'm hurting with the tobacco people. That's five percent of Maryland's agriculture, and S.R. 52 has no price supports at all."
Grant spread his hands. "The bill has to pass the budget muster, Oliver. And if we write in price supports for tobacco, I'll lose ten votes, guaranteed. But your own Department of Agriculture calls the Chesapeake Bay 'Maryland's great natural treasure.' That treasure needs this bill, Oliver. As much as the Everglades does."
"Maybe more," Elaine said. "This is the right thing to do, Oliver. It's the right thing for your state and mine. It's the right thing for the country. And if things do go our way next November, wouldn't you like to have a sympathetic ear in the Oval Office?"
Falden was a Republican, but he was also a realist. "Bring up the soybean baselines. Another two cents a pound. I can sell it at that."
Grant nodded. "I'll see what I can do."
"And while you're at it," Falden added, "get behind us on this mess in Colombia. The Bogota government needs to see unified U.S. support before they're going to go all out after those guerillas."
Caught up in his grief, with what little focus he had left given to his girls and S.R. 52, Grant had given only cursory attention to the deteriorating situation in the eastern highlands of Colombia. He was not about to get railroaded into supporting U.S. military intervention, and certainly not as a bargaining chip for his bill.
"The situation down there is too fluid for my taste," Grant said. "I want to see things coalesce a bit, give the Colombians a chance to clean their own house, before we go wading in with guns blazing."
"They're shooting up humanitarian convoys," Falden said, pressing the point.
Grant put up a hand. "Senator, I'll see what I can do about the soybean baselines. But as for Colombia, that's a different issue. My vote on funding for U.S. military aid will be on its merits."
Falden nodded. "I guess that's all I can ask."
Elaine smiled. It was a smile of cool satisfaction. She elbowed Mitchum. "Isn't this better than a stripper?"
The laughter broke the tension, and for the rest of the evening the drinks and conversation flowed freely. To Grant, it was also a blur. His body warred between the adrenaline rush of the deal and sheer exhaustion. After another hour, he excused himself.
It was time to go home and call the girls.
10
After he'd called his daughters and read Horton Hears a Who to them at long distance rates, Grant said the painful good-nights. He'd had to be away from them too many times to count, but still it seemed to tear his heart out when Belle said "Good night, Daddy" in that sleepy voice. He could see her pretty face, soft with sleep, stroking her cheek with her hand as she always did. Cathy held on for only a few minutes longer. It was past their bedtime, and he'd called too late.
It hadn't taken long for his job to step on his girls again. One night.
"The girls had a great time," Art said after Cathy had hung up. "They're super kids."
"How many gorillas did it take to feed them dinner?"
Art laughed. "Only two. I made batter-fried catfish and hush puppies for them. They kept saying 'Hush, puppy!' and laughing up a storm. But they ate well. And did their homework. I didn't even have to ask."
"I'm not surprised," Grant said, shaking his head. "Kids always behave better when they're away from their parents. But that will wear off in a couple of days."
"That's right. Once they start thinking of me as a parent, I'm sure I'll see all their hijinks."
"I'm sure you will, too." Grant glanced at the clock on the wall over his desk. "I have a couple of other calls I need to make tonight. Thanks again, Art."
"I'm glad to help out, Grant. Good night."
* * *
Art hung up the phone. It wasn't difficult to imagine Belle and Cathy thinking of him as a parent. They'd grown up with his twins, after all. He'd changed Belle's diapers more than once. And he often drove them to school when Grant was out of town.
Grant kept saying "Thanks," as if Art were making some major sacrifice. Truth was, it was no sacrifice at all. In the fifteen months since Elizabeth had left, his girls had become his life. Ha
ving two more gave him twice as much reason to wake up the next morning.
It was no sacrifice at all.
* * *
Grant flipped open the folder full of messages he'd picked up from his office in the Senate building that day. He sorted them into stacks, one for those that required a prompt phone call on Monday, another for those that required a letter in response, and another for the few he might need to reply to over the weekend.
And one he needed to answer tonight.
His heart slammed as he saw the message from Lieutenant Simpson, Tampa Homicide, with both work and home phone numbers.
Had they found Abby's murderer? Or—nightmare thought—had they found out that Stacy had been murdered in his house, as well? He felt guilty for even worrying about such a thing. But there was Jerry's future to consider. Most of all, there was the horrific scandal he didn't want to touch his daughters.
His hand shook as he reached for the phone and punched in the home number for Simpson.
"Lieutenant Simpson, please."
"This is Simpson."
"Lieutenant, this is Grant Lawrence. I just got your message. Sorry to call so late."
"No problem. Like yours, my job doesn't have regular hours."
Grant couldn't manage even a polite chuckle. "Have you learned something about Abby's murder?" His palm was sweating, he realized. He hated fearing what the police might find, and for an instant he felt a surge of anger against Jerry that shook him to his core.
"No, no, I'm afraid not, Senator," Simpson said. "Sorry I raised your hopes. No, I need to ask a favor with regard to the investigation."
"Anything I can do," Grant said. Anything except betray Jerry and hurt his daughters.
"I'm going to send a detective up there. With the break-in of your files, this is looking more and more like a political crime. We don't really have an eye on anyone in particular at the moment, but it makes sense to get a feeling for what's happening up there. It's not just the break-in, Senator. Someone's spreading nasty rumors."
Grant sighed. "Aren't they always?"
The policeman laughed. "I suppose so. But put it all together and…"
"Yes, of course," Grant said, impatient to get this conversation over now that he knew the cops had no real news for him. "What is it you'd like me to do?"
"I'd like you to let my detective follow you around a bit, give her a chance to talk to people in your circles."
"Her?"
"Well, I'm sending the lead investigator, Detective Sweeney."
Grant almost said no. He had a sudden memory of predatory, wise gray eyes, eyes that seemed to see too much. But it wasn't just what she might find out that disturbed him. No, it was his reaction to the thought of seeing her again. She intrigued him in a way that made him distinctly uncomfortable.
"I'll do what I can," he told the lieutenant. "When will she arrive?"
"I'm going to put her on the first available flight."
"Have her call me when she gets in. I'll have someone pick her up."
"Thanks. Just don't put her in a really expensive hotel. She's on a per diem." Simpson chuckled. "The department has a limit."
"I'll see that she gets a room somewhere suitable," he promised, straining to join in the chuckle. A room far, far away from his own Georgetown house.
When he hung up the phone, he felt as if he'd gone through the wringer. Now that he was learning to live with his grief over Abby and Stacy, he was realizing that he was in a real mess.
A really big mess.
* * *
"We have problems," Grant said to Jerry Connally.
It was Saturday. No need to go to his office, just a meeting later in the day with some constituents who were in town for the weekend. Ordinary people who had come to enjoy Washington and thought it might be nice to actually meet their senator.
They were having breakfast served on the terrace behind Grant's Georgetown house. It wasn't much of a terrace, but it was enough, with a bit of garden. The housekeeper filled the table with coffee in a thermal carafe along with a bowl of grapefruit and orange sections. On the side table, she had put a couple of chafing dishes holding grits and scrambled eggs. On a warming plate were sausage and bacon.
Enough to feed an army. But Grant's housekeeper was trained to provide variety whenever he had guests for a meal, even if it was only breakfast. When alone, he was apt to have only a bowl of whole grain cereal and a glass of orange juice.
"I told you," Jerry said. "Don't worry about it. I'm the only one who can take a fall on this. You don't know anything."
"And what's going to happen when they do catch the killer? You're not the only one who knows all of what happened that night."
Grant, aware that he could be watched from anywhere, though most likely only by his housekeeper this morning, was careful not to throw up a hand as he wanted to, was careful to keep his voice quiet and even, though turmoil made him want to get loud.
"They'll never make the connection," Jerry said quietly.
"Of course not. Unless the killer confesses."
Jerry's head jerked. Then he looked squarely at Grant. "Well, if he does, I'll confess."
Grant shook his head, feeling pain for his friend. "Jerry…Jerry, we've been friends forever. I don't want anything to happen to you."
Jerry's face hardened, a look Grant knew all too well. This was Jerry the fighter, a man who, for twenty years, had methodically overcome any obstacle in Grant's path, sometimes including Grant himself.
"If I go down, I go down. What's important is that we push the bill through and you get the presidency, Grant. This country needs a turnaround. People are ready for a fresh wind. That's what matters."
Grant's anger ebbed as he looked at his counselor and friend. It was humbling, more humbling than anything in his life, except the birth of his daughters, to realize how much Jerry was willing to sacrifice to put him in the White House. But it also disconcerted him. He suddenly wanted to bound out of the chair and pace off the agitation.
"Jerry, I don't need a fanatic on my staff."
Jerry gave him a half smile. "I'm no kamikaze, Grant. I'm not proud of what I did that night. But I'll have to live with the nightmares. I did the right thing for you, your daughters, the bill, my hometown and the country. If you need me to resign over it…"
"No."
Jerry shrugged. "Your call. I'm also clearheaded enough to realize that I'm in for a pile of shit, sooner or later."
Grant's heart ached for his friend. "Oh, I know."
"No, you don't know. You suspect. You can suspect all you want, but you don't know. And if it ever comes to it, I'll deny that you even suspected, because I sure as hell haven't told you anything except that Stacy died that night, too."
Grant gave up trying to maintain outward calm. He rose from his chair and started pacing the flagstone patio. Glancing through the French doors, he saw that his housekeeper was nowhere in sight.
He was lawyer enough to know that Jerry was right. If questioned in a courtroom, he would be nailed down to the fact that all he had were suspicions. That he knew nothing for a fact.
But that didn't settle the moral problem, not one little bit, and a bilious taste filled the back of his mouth. There were too many priorities involved here, too many people he cared about. Scandal had to be avoided for their sakes. For his. Oh quit the nobility, he told himself. Give it up. You've got as much vested in silence right now as anybody.
He hated himself for it.
Finally he spoke. "That detective's arriving in town this morning."
"What detective?"
He faced Jerry. "The Sweeney woman. Seems the TPD is following a trail in this direction."
Jerry nodded. He looked as calm as if they were merely discussing the weather. Maybe he was truly resigned to whatever might happen. Or maybe he was just good at hiding his feelings. Well, of course he was. He'd trained in a courtroom and had enough political experience to know how to hide what he was thinking.
"I said I'd have someone pick her up and establish her in a hotel," Grant said.
Jerry nodded. "I'll do it."
"Right into the lion's den, huh?"
Jerry shrugged. "I made the mess. I'll clean it up."
* * *
Karen walked down the jetway and into the cavernous, cockeyed, glass barn that was Dulles International Airport. She'd called the senator from the plane just before final approach. Lawrence had said that Jerry Connally would meet her at baggage claim. So the next step was to find baggage claim. This wasn't a matter of great detective work so much as simply following the herd.
It was, at least, a well-heeled herd. People for whom "weekend casual" meant designer polo shirts and freshly-pressed khaki slacks. Seriously relaxed faces. Seriously casual checks of pagers and cell phones. There seemed to be a pervading tension in the air. She'd read somewhere that New York was a city about money, while Washington was a city about power. She could almost see that.
Connally joined her as her bag came down the belt. She was a half step too far away to reach it, and he hefted it for her.
"You travel light, Detective," he said, with a hint of friendly sarcasm.
Breaking the ice. She smiled. "I didn't know if y'all might have a late cold snap. So I packed every warm thing I had."
"Good idea. It still gets chilly in the evenings." They made for the door, where he'd kept a car waiting. "I'll take you to your hotel. Then I guess you'll want to meet with Grant?"
"Sounds like a plan," she said.
Jerry climbed in beside her and gave the driver the name of a hotel. Minutes later, they were in the HOV lane of I-66, headed for the city. They swept past elegant new subdivisions, barely visible behind ivy-clad stone walls. Some cities wept. Some cities yelled. This city whispered. And every whisper mattered.
They crossed the Potomac on the Fourteenth Street Bridge and turned north, through Georgetown. Wisconsin Avenue teemed with European sedans. Embassies lined the streets until, farther north, they drove into another kind of elegance. Not a modern subdivision, but stately, residential homes that filled the northwest corner of the city.
