With Malice

by Rachel Lee

  Karen tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. As soon as she reached for the plastic cup on the table, Connally was on his feet. He filled it and handed it to her.

  "Thanks."

  "My pleasure."

  She sipped carefully, cautious because of her nausea. Her brain was still foggy, and she was having trouble coordinating her thoughts and reactions. "Is there something you want from me?"

  "Yeah. Find out who's behind this shit before they kill Grant's candidacy."

  Which, thought Karen as Connally walked out, was a long way from demanding she find Abby Reese's murderer.

  Again there was that little click in her brain. Things were definitely not adding up.

  * * *

  "Yeah," said Lieutenant Simpson. "Mr. Connally called to tell me about the accident. How are you feeling?"

  "Confused. What day is it?"

  "That's bad," he said, assessing the situation. "It's Monday morning."

  "I've been out that long?"

  "Long enough to make one of the tabloids and the front page of the local papers. The tabloid picture isn't so good, but there's no mistaking you standing beside the senator at the party on the front page of the dailies."

  "Oh, God." She sagged against the pillow.

  "If this is your idea of being undercover, you better get plastic surgery to change your face."

  "Lieutenant…"

  "Forget it, Karen. You couldn't hang around the senator without anyone knowing anything. I'm going to send Previn up there."

  "No! No. Please. I've got him working another murder. Listen, can you arrange for me to work with someone from Washington P.D.?"

  He thought about that for what seemed like a lifetime. "Yeah, that might be a good idea."

  "It would help with the investigation of the accident."

  "What's to investigate? Connally said it was an accident."

  "He just told me otherwise."

  "Shit." Simpson fell silent again. Then, "What the hell do you think we're dealing with here?"

  "The Reese woman may have been murdered incidentally. I think the target is the senator."

  "I was afraid you were going to say that. Yeah. I'll get Washington to work with you. In the meantime, stay put in that bed until they say you can leave. Got it?"

  "Yes, sir."

  * * *

  Alissa Jurgen poured herself another glass of wine and swirled the rich, golden liquid around in her glass. For an instant after the wine passed over the glass, it left a film. Then the film receded, as if it had never been. A memory, faded and gone.

  Six months, two days, four hours.

  That was how long ago it had been, and the memory hadn't faded yet. One kiss. A moment of weakness, Stacy had said. One kiss, and Alissa could still remember every moment of it. The look in Stacy's eyes, grief and gratitude, melded with curiosity and reluctance. The scent of her hair and her skin. The taste of her lips, still damp with Chardonnay. The sound of her own quiet sigh. A moment of magic.

  Broken in the moment the kiss parted.

  "I'm sorry," Stacy had said, sadness rich in her eyes. "I just can't."

  Alissa had nodded and understood. How could she not? It wasn't as if she hadn't grown close to one or two men in her life. And always, at a moment just like that kiss with Stacy, she'd realized those feelings simply weren't there.

  "It's not that I don't love you," Stacy had said. "I just don't…love you…that way."

  "Please, stop," Alissa had whispered, not wanting to hear the words, not wanting to put the moment into the abstraction of language. It was what it was. "We are who we are."

  Stacy had nodded. They'd hugged. Fiercely. But they'd never again been quite so close. Stacy had never again shared quite so much of herself. Her aching for the man she'd loved, even when both he and she had known it wouldn't work. Her dreams of children and family.

  They had gone from soul sisters to…just for that one moment, lovers…and then to business partners and friends.

  She sipped her wine, the same Chardonnay they'd shared that night. She still had the memory, for as long as that winery bottled Chardonnay.

  Fighting away tears, she returned her attention to the studio books. At least the studio was solid. It wouldn't make her rich, but she could afford a nice apartment and food. And she could do what she loved.

  "Thank you, Stacy," she whispered into the darkness.

  The stillness was broken by her doorbell. She rose from her chair and walked to the door, peering through the spy hole at the thin, sad-looking man on the other side. Latching the chain, she opened the door.

  "Alissa Jurgen?" he asked.

  "Yes. What is it?"

  He held up a leather identification wallet. "Dave Previn. Tampa PD. Might I come in for a moment?"

  "Is it about Stacy? Do you know who…?"

  He shook his head, answering the question she couldn't bring herself to finish. "Yes, ma'am, and no. I just need to verify some information with you. May I come in?"

  She closed the door, released the chain and opened it to let him enter. "Would you like something to drink?"

  "No, thank you," he said. "I'm sorry about the hour. It shouldn't take too long."

  He had wounded eyes. She wondered if he could see the wound in hers. "It's okay, Detective." She paused. "You are a detective, right?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  He seemed at a loss for where to begin, thoughts playing through his eyes, half-starts and withdrawals. He was ill at ease, she thought. Probably new.

  "What have you found out?" she asked.

  "Well, that's the thing, ma'am. I've read Miss Wiggins' will. She's leaving the dance studio to you."

  Alissa nodded.

  "That doesn't surprise you?" he asked.

  "No, Detective. We'd talked about it. Stacy was the majority owner, but I'd put some money into it, too. When we set up the books, the lawyer suggested that we make plans to protect the business if either of us…" Her voice trailed away. "It seemed silly at the time. She was so young."

  He nodded. "So your will would have left your interest in the studio to Miss Wiggins, then?"

  Her eyes brimmed. "I guess I'll have to change that now."

  "I know this sounds intrusive, but do you have a copy of your will?"

  "Sure," she said. She pulled open the roll-top desk, a gift from an old flame, two months before the woman had decided she wasn't leaving her husband after all. The desk was neither a good memory nor a bad one. It was, she had come to believe, simply a piece of furniture. Taking a key from a small drawer in the top compartment, she unlocked the file drawer, moved past old tax returns and receipts, and found a folder labeled simply "Me."

  She handed him the document, folded into a fancy blue cover sheet with what she considered ostentatious printing. Her lawyer probably did these things to impress clients. She ruminated on that thought for the few minutes it took the detective to scan the document itself.

  He looked up. "You'd have left your entire estate to Miss Wiggins. Not just your interest in the business."

  She nodded. "I've no one else."

  "No parents or siblings?" he asked.

  "They're…we're…not close," she said. "I'm not dating anyone, let alone in the kind of relationship where I'd put them in a will."

  His eyes seemed to narrow. "So you and Miss Wiggins…you dated?"

  "We were friends, Detective. It's like I told the other woman who came. I'm lesbian. Stacy was straight. I had a crush on her. She didn't have one on me. But we were close friends, regardless."

  "Close enough that you'd have left everything to her," he said, without inflection.

  It might have been simply repeating what she'd said, or it might have been a subtle accusation. There was no way to tell in his voice.

  "Yes, that close," she said, trying to keep her voice as impassive as his.

  "And now the studio is all yours. What are you going to do with it?"

  "I'm going to work, Detective. Teach stud
ents. Teach my art and my craft. Maybe I'll get lucky and find the next Fred or Ginger, and they'll get rich and send me baskets of thank-you notes written on hundred-dollar bills, but I doubt it. So I'll work, like I've been doing. It's what I know. It's what I love."

  "Nice to be able to make a living doing what you love," he said. His voice was still expressionless, but his eyes had narrowed. "Will you be changing the name of the studio? I mean, how can it be 'Stacy's Steppers Dance Studio' if Miss Wiggins is…gone?"

  "I haven't even thought about it," Alissa said. "It's a known name. I may keep it."

  "Or you may not," he said.

  Anger and impatience finally flashed. "Are you going somewhere with this, Detective? Do you think I killed Stacy to get the studio? Because if you do, you might look at the studio books. No one gets rich teaching children to dance, Detective. Maybe you've got us confused with some of the ballroom dancing businesses."

  "Maybe," he said, then paused for a moment. "But you can't keep emotions in a ledger."

  She stood up. "I think we're finished, Detective. You can leave. Now. Please."

  "Money's a strange thing," he said as he walked to the door. "People…do the most illogical things over money. They'll gun down a convenience store clerk for chump change, even though everyone knows the clerks don't keep much in the registers. Strange, strange things." He opened the door himself. "Good night, Ms. Jurgen."

  "Good night," she said, closing the door behind him and turning the dead bolt.

  She shook her head, fighting down the anger that nearly overcame her. She would not kick the door. She would not throw a pillow.

  Instead, she simply picked up her will, reread it, then tore it to shreds. Fancy blue cover and all.

  13

  Tuesday morning, Karen was awakened by the gentlest of touches as a hand brushed her hair back from her brow. Even before she opened her eyes, she smelled the hospital odors, locating herself in space and time. Part of her wanted to sink into the tender touch, playing 'possum, but another part of her was disturbed that anyone should touch her that way in her sleep.

  Her eyes popped open, and she looked into Grant Lawrence's face. Immediately, he dropped his hand from her brow and took a backward step. "Good morning, Karen. How are you feeling?"

  She felt around in the bed for the control and raised her head, taking him in. He was dressed in a business suit, neat as a pin, and leaning on a cane. "I'm fine," she said. "I can leave today."

  He smiled. "That's wonderful news."

  "What about you? Your knee?"

  "Oh, it's minor. I'll need a cane and a brace for a while, but I'll be okay."

  "I'm glad to hear it." But looking at his familiar face, she saw that his eyes were pinched, despite his smile. The prickly, reserved part of herself warred with a sudden rush of tenderness and yearning…and won. It always won.

  He spoke. "I'm very sorry about that photo in the tabloid. You must be horrified."

  She shrugged. "No, I'm not. Not for myself. But I am for you."

  He shook his head and gave a small snort of laughter. "If it wasn't this, it'd be something else. They will have their pound of flesh. Anyway, the real story went out over the wires, including the part about the press and paparazzi being called on a phony tip. Intelligent people will figure it out."

  "You're very calm about it."

  He grimaced. "I'm used to it. Or at least I'm getting used to it. Once people think you're nosing around the presidency, it's open season. There'll be a lot worse things rumored about me before all's said and done."

  A sudden flash of humor lit his gaze. "Hell, I've been widowed for over two years. Why shouldn't I be found between a beautiful woman's legs?"

  Almost in spite of herself, Karen laughed. "It sure isn't cheating."

  "There, you see?" His smile broadened. "Now, do you want me to send a car for you?"

  "No, I don't think so." The thought of seeing Jerry Connally today put her off, though she couldn't quite say why. Maybe it was because he stood between Grant and the rest of the world? That thought led to speculations about her own feelings that she didn't want to consider. "I'll just get a cab," she said. "I think I want to ride around a bit."

  "Whatever suits you. I'll call you at the hotel this evening."

  He smiled, started to lean toward her, as if he might drop a kiss on her forehead, then stopped. His face changed in some indefinable way. Rigid now, he nodded, said goodbye and limped out.

  What the hell was that all about? Karen wondered. She must have misinterpreted his intention. Most likely his knee had just twinged.

  But much to her great relief, before she could think about it any more, the phone rang.

  "Detective Sweeney?" said a gruff voice with a definite Philly accent.

  "Yes?"

  "This is Detective Tyson, Washington P.D. We got a request from Tampa to hook up with you. Are you about ready to march?"

  "They're supposed to let me out sometime this morning."

  "Okay. Give me a call when they discharge you. I'll be there within twenty minutes. Got something to write on?"

  There was a small pad and pen on the bedside table, courtesy of Jerry Connally. She wrote down the phone number quickly. "Thanks, Detective."

  "No problem, Detective."

  If that was so, why did she feel as if it were going to be a very big problem?

  * * *

  Randall Youngblood's morning went to hell before he'd even crossed the sidewalk to the office door. He was accosted by a fresh-faced man of about thirty, who was holding a reporter's notebook and, poorly concealed beneath it, a microcassette recorder.

  "Mr. Youngblood," the young man said insistently, "I'm Dan Weeks, Washington Herald."

  Randall looked at him, debating whether to make an issue out of the recorder. Already he could feel his stomach going sour. It wasn't that he didn't like to talk to the press; he actually enjoyed giving news conferences, and he was good at it. But being accosted this way…This guy wasn't after facts or figures about S.R. 52.

  Finally he spoke, keeping his voice pleasant. "Do you always tape people without telling them?"

  Weeks slipped the recorder from beneath his notebook and showed it to Randall. "It's not running, sir. I was going to ask. Recording ensures I don't misquote you."

  "Whether I have any comment depends on what you're asking about."

  "Yes, sir. I understand that, sir. But I thought you'd want to respond to the accusation."

  "Accusation?"

  Weeks nodded. "I have a source who tells me that someone on your staff was involved in the break-in at Senator Grant's home."

  For an instant, just an instant, Randall felt everything inside him freeze.

  "Who the hell told you that?"

  "I can't tell you my source's name, sir."

  Randall's shock gave way to a surge of anger so strong it nearly blinded him. "So you fancy yourself the next Woodward or Bernstein, do you?"

  Now Weeks' face darkened. "I'm giving you a chance to deny the story, sir."

  "Well, I do deny it. Categorically. My entire staff knows better than to indulge in shenanigans like that. Politics can be an ugly business sometimes, but you can't let it be personal. It can never be personal, because once you let that happen, you end up with things like Watergate."

  Weeks nodded. The recorder was running now, and Randall didn't care. Let this young news grubber record all this, and let him print it.

  "Grant Lawrence and I have been friends for years," Randall continued harshly. "Years. Even when we're on different sides of an issue. We're able to do that because we don't let it get personal. So tell your cowardly anonymous source that he's got it all wrong. There's no Watergate in my camp."

  Then he stormed into his office, wishing like the devil for a cigar, wishing he could get his hands around the throat of that anonymous source. Stories like this could destroy him. He stabbed the intercom button on his phone.

  "Michaels? Get your ass in here."
r />   * * *

  At almost the same moment, Grant Lawrence was climbing out of his limousine at the Senate Office Building. He, too, was accosted by a reporter before he reached the door.

  "Senator, may I have a moment of your time? Brigit Carter, Washington Times."

  "Certainly," Grant said, turning to her with a pleasant smile, even though his every sense was on high alert. Getting ambushed this way usually meant something unpleasant.

  "Thank you, sir." She lifted pad and pen, smiling back at him. She struck him as a woman who went to great lengths to appear plain. "I was wondering if you have any comment on the story that someone on Randall Youngblood's staff was involved in the break-in at your Tampa house?"

  Grant felt sheer astonishment. "Who in the world told you that?"

  "I can't reveal my sources, sir."

  Grant shook his head. "Well, I don't believe it. Not at all. And may I suggest we let the police reach the conclusions, based on evidence and not rumor?"

  "Certainly, sir." In a practiced shorthand, apparently of her own devising, she seemed to get down exactly what he said. "And what about the rumor that there was a cover-up in your wife's death?"

  This time he was more than astonished, he was angered. Yes, there had been a cover-up, but a cover-up of things that nobody else had a right to know. "I don't," he said carefully, "see what need there was to cover up anything. She was killed by a drunk driver, plain and simple. The facts speak for themselves."

  "Yes, but sources in Tampa say the investigation was short-circuited."

  "In what way? Tests showed she was sober. The other driver was not. He crossed the median and hit her nearly head-on. Read the police report."

  "Yes, sir, I will. Sir, just one more thing."

  He was already starting to turn away, sickened at the direction of the questioning, his thoughts leaping immediately to his daughters. If ugly things made it into the press, their schoolmates would hear about it from their parents or the TV, and then they would question and tease Belle and Cathy.

  He forced himself to face her, forced himself to keep a pleasant expression. "Yes?"

  "Senator, we have a tip that your daughters are…well, that you're not their biological father."