by Rachel Lee
"And of course you have a DNA database."
He nodded, and she continued. "Which means you can finger him. In four to six weeks. If his DNA is on file."
"That would be how it'd usually work," Tyson said.
"Except?"
"Except we've already found him. Or I'm pretty sure we have. Nat Olson."
"How?"
"He's in the morgue right now. Overdose. Way overdose. Turns out one of our lab guys is dating a woman who works at the M.E.'s office. She mentions this stiff who comes in, O.D.'d, with two front teeth broken out within the past few hours, judging by the blood around his gums. Our lab guy asks what he's wearing. She tells him."
"Leather gloves," Karen said, smiling.
"Bingo. Driving gloves. So our lab guy takes the broken teeth they'd found in the car over to the morgue, and sure enough…"
"They fit. Nice work, Tyson. You've found the driver of the stolen car. Of course, it'd be better if we could talk to him, but he jacked a needle in his arm and went night-night."
He grinned. "Sarcasm becomes you, Detective."
"Thanks. And just Karen, please."
"And you're right, Karen. Short of a séance, we're not going to be interviewing Nat Olson. But I'm not buying the accidental overdose theory. Nobody shoots up wearing gloves. No, someone helped him O.D., probably by giving him pure, uncut shit. And I'll bet that person was at the scene, to make sure everything came off."
"Olson became a loose end," she said.
"That's my read on it. Maybe they planned to kill him all along. Or maybe they thought he'd slip away during the commotion, unnoticed, no prints, no way to find him, no problem…."
"Until they saw the bloodstain on the air bag."
"Give the lady a gold star."
"Next stop, Washington Herald photo shop?"
He smiled. "My thought exactly. Maybe, just maybe, the camera-toting vulture who put y'all in the tabloids also got a shot of the handler peering in the car window."
Karen laughed. "I could get used to working with you, Tyson."
He shook his head. "Twenty-two days."
* * *
Randall Youngblood stood with his back to his office window and looked at Bill Michaels, who was sitting on the other side of the desk. It had taken the better part of the day for Michaels to turn up. He'd been out doing some work with some congressional aides. "Researching," as he called it.
Michaels was speaking. "Of course we didn't have anything to do with the break-in at Lawrence's home. It would have been too risky and potentially pointless."
Randall wasn't sure he liked Michaels' reasoning on that, but he left it alone. The important thing right now was the current situation. What Michaels might do under other circumstances was a subject they could get to later.
"Then why the hell are these rumors spreading?"
"Probably because the only thing tampered with at the house was the senator's files."
Youngblood reached for his chair and sat down. He didn't like the sound of this one bit. "Where did you learn that? The press is saying it was a burglary."
"It was a burglary. These burglars, however, only seemed to be interested in the files."
"Oh my God." Randall swiveled his chair and looked out the window, where the capitol dome was visible over the nearby roofs. "Watergate."
"No way. We didn't have anything to do with it."
Randall turned around again to face Michaels. "Are you absolutely positive of that?"
Michaels nodded. "My guys don't do anything without specific orders. That's why I picked them."
"But who else would…?"
Michaels' eyes took on a chilliness that made Randall wonder, really wonder, for the first time what this man was truly capable of.
"Sir," Michaels said, "you need to remember that while you may have taken the public position of lobbyist for the majority of agricultural associations in the country concerned over this issue, there are people besides you and the cane growers involved. And some of them are very, very big businesses."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning, sir, that there are plenty of people outside our personal organization who could have been behind the break-in—assuming it had anything at all to do with S.R. 52."
"I don't know whether that comforts me or not."
Michaels' expression didn't change. "You're merely the most public face behind which all the shadows are standing. You must have known that."
Randall looked down at his desk. "I hadn't thought of it quite that way before."
"No, sir. But perhaps it's time you did. You're naturally the first person the press are going to ask about that rumor."
"I wonder who the hell started it."
"I'd almost bet it was someone in Lawrence's camp."
"No. He wouldn't do that."
"I didn't say the senator did it. But someone who works for him or supports him might have done so."
"Christ, what a mess! How did you find out about the files, anyway?"
Michaels crossed his legs. "From my source at Tampa P.D."
"What else have you found out?"
"Only that Detective Karen Sweeney is up here to check you out."
Ordinarily Randall didn't need antacids until later in the day, but this morning he needed one right now. Opening the desk drawer, he pulled out a bottle of Tums and popped a couple.
"Bill?" he said as he chewed.
"Sir?"
"I want you to bust your butt to find out who's behind this. If I get tarred by that break-in and murder, however distantly, S.R. 52 is going to pass in a landslide."
"Yes, sir. One other thing, sir."
"Yes?"
"I found out why the investigation into the death of Georgina Lawrence was short-circuited."
Randall stopped chewing. "Why?"
"She was on her way home from meeting her lover. The senator apparently knew about it, and Jerry Connally stepped in to have the autopsy report skip over certain details…such as that she had just had sex, and that she was pregnant, presumably by another man."
"My God! How the hell did you find this out?"
"From someone in the medical examiner's office. Apparently Connally persuaded the M.E. that there would be no useful service performed by putting information in a public report that would only harm the senator's children and didn't have anything at all to do with Georgina Lawrence's death."
Randall looked down, shaking his head as he absorbed this information. "I have to agree with Connally on that one."
"Perhaps there's an issue you're not considering, Mr. Youngblood."
"What's that?"
"Senator Grant Lawrence is willing to tamper with the conduct of a police investigation to serve his own purposes. I think that's rather significant, don't you?"
15
It was too late to get anywhere with the Herald photo shop, so Terry dropped Karen off at her hotel.
"We'll get started again in the morning," he told her. "Doesn't hurt to take the first day out of the hospital slow, anyway. Pick you up at nine?"
"Sure. Thanks, Terry."
He grinned and drove away. That was when she first suspected he'd been taking it easy all day, including that long lunch break, for her sake. Smiling inwardly, she headed up to her room. There was nothing like the way one cop looked out for another.
A message from Grant Lawrence awaited her, suggesting they meet at a restaurant in Georgetown for dinner at eight. "I'll be there," he said. "If you can make it, great. If you can't, don't worry about it."
She decided she would make it. And as soon as the decision was made, she had to face the fact that she wanted to see Grant Lawrence for reasons other than the case. He probably wouldn't have anything to add—after all, he was the victim, of sorts, not the perp—but she wanted to see him anyway.
For the first time, a very real fear penetrated the detachment she worked so hard to maintain. For the first time in a long time, she wasn't simply a detective doing a job, but a woman.
A woman who felt very alone and very vulnerable all of a sudden.
She didn't like that at all.
She gave herself a stern lecture, muttering under her breath as she moved around the room, trying to decide what was appropriate to wear to dinner with a senator, finally ordering herself to wear something businesslike so there wouldn't be any misunderstanding.
And realizing that the only misunderstanding was apt to be on her part. In Grant Lawrence's world, she was merely a cop doing a job. He probably just wanted to pick her brains.
Finally she settled on a navy blue suit, one with a skirt that reached to mid-calf, and black low-heeled pumps. Aside from her red suit, it was the only other piece of power clothing she owned. She wore it mainly for testifying in court.
She suspected it would be apropos.
* * *
Grant was already waiting for her inside the restaurant when she arrived. A pleasant maitre d' escorted her to the table in a quiet corner, a table somewhat shielded by leafy tropical plants. Most of the tables, she noted, were shielded in just such a way.
"Hi," Grant said, rising to greet her. He shook her hand and remained standing until the maitre d' had seated her. They sat facing one another across a snowy tablecloth, with a small bowl of floating candles between them, a little sprig of flowers in a miniature vase beside it.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his gaze reflecting genuine concern.
"Much better." She smiled. "The headache is almost completely gone."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"Your knee?"
He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "It's been worse. This is only a minor inconvenience."
The sommelier appeared with the wine list. Grant looked at Karen with a questioning lift of his brow, and she nodded.
"Do you have any preferences?" he asked.
"I'm willing to try anything. I don't drink often."
The sommelier departed with the order, leaving them alone again, but only for a moment, as the waiter appeared with menus. Grant barely glanced at his, apparently knowing what he wanted. Karen scanned hers more closely, looking for the cheapest thing, something that wouldn't make her credit card smoke.
Grant seemed to sense her hesitation. "This is my treat," he said. "No obligation implied. I just didn't want to dine alone tonight, and right now there aren't many people I trust."
She looked up from the menu. "Are you sure you should trust me?"
"You're the force of law and order, aren't you? I could use some of both in my life right now."
"Did something happen today?"
His mouth twisted. "Other than the press asking if my children are my own?"
She felt her jaw drop as her heart slammed. "My God!"
"Whatever is going on, Karen, is getting very, very nasty. I don't know who is behind it or why, but it's far more than a simple break-in that went bad and cost Abby her life. It's a directed and concerted effort."
"Against you."
He nodded slowly. "But anyway, I didn't invite you here to talk business. I was hoping we could both forget our jobs for a few hours and just chat about anything else. Anything besides the fact that things are going to hell in Colombia and I may have to take a position on the matter that I won't like. Anything besides a press that knows no limits of decency."
"Sure." She managed a smile. "What shall we talk about?"
"What made you decide to become a cop?"
She cocked her head to one side. "Well, I suppose I ought to have some kind of romantic story about wanting to avenge someone I cared about, but all I've got is stubbornness."
"Stubbornness?" He grinned. "That's a new one. What set that off?"
"My father. When I was little, like most kids, I toyed around with the idea of being a cop. The difference was, my dad said I'd make a lousy cop. So I fixated on it. And the more he told me I couldn't do the job, the more determined I became to do it. The day I graduated from the academy I wanted to tell him, 'I told you so,' but he wasn't there."
His expression gentled. "Was your father that hard on you about everything?"
"Pretty much. He didn't have much respect for the abilities of women."
"What about your mother?"
"She left him when I was twelve. I never saw her again."
"Damn." His hand stirred as if he were about to reach out for hers, but then it stilled. "I'm sorry, Karen."
"It doesn't matter anymore. I've proved myself to my own satisfaction, and that's what really counts, isn't it? My own opinion of myself?"
He smiled. "I like to think so. But in my business, everyone else's opinion seems to count more."
She tilted her head to one side, giving him her patented straight stare. "That's not really true, is it? I mean, in terms of getting re-elected, it is. But that's not the most important thing in your life, is it?"
"No," he admitted.
"That's what I always figured about you. That your own morality took precedence over politics."
His face shadowed a bit, pricking her interest, but then he nodded. "You're right. At least mostly. But all of us have to make compromises to get anything done in this country. It's the beauty—and pain—of democracy. I wash your hand, you wash mine."
"And you find that painful."
"Sometimes, yes. But I'm also a realist. And actually, most of the compromises I have to make aren't that distressing."
"But occasionally?"
"Occasionally it can be hell." He smiled. "Now don't tell me your job is a bed of roses."
"It's not. It's not at all."
She was interrupted by the waiter, who came to take their orders, and was grateful for it. She didn't want to get into the doubts she was experiencing, or the anger that seemed sometimes to eat her alive.
But Grant wasn't one to forget where a conversation had been headed. "What are the things you hate about your job?" he asked when they were alone again.
"The ugliness. The unfairness. The murder of a prostitute won't get half the attention of the murder of a successful businessman. I was called off the scene of a woman found dead in an alley to come to your place. That irritated me."
He nodded. "Why couldn't they send someone else?"
"Because everyone's tied up in the College Hill shootings. That's a headline case. You're a headline case. So the unknown woman in the alley was pushed onto the back burner."
"That's not right."
"Of course it's not right. It's justified as apportionment of limited resources."
His expression encouraged her to continue.
"It's not that Abby Reese's murder didn't matter to me," she said. "Don't misunderstand me."
"I don't. I can see you care very deeply."
"I do. Maybe that's the problem. Anyway, the woman found in the alley got moved from the back burner."
"By your efforts?"
"In part. I wasn't going to forget her. But then it turned out she wasn't just another prostitute."
"No?"
"No. She turned out to be the owner of a dance school. So nobody's going to forget her now."
Grant Lawrence grew very still. Karen, a cop to her very bones, didn't miss it. "What's wrong?"
For a second or two, he didn't answer. "Just…a twinge in my knee. Sorry."
Then he reached out and touched her hand lightly, briefly. "I'm glad you think that one victim matters as much as another."
"They do. They're all human lives." She still felt his touch, though it was gone, and realized that she didn't want to talk about her job anymore. Not tonight. Tonight she wanted…she wanted. Exactly what, she wasn't sure, but not this.
"This is depressing," she said, trying a smile. "There must be something more cheerful we can talk about."
* * *
The veal marsala had gone down well, as had the cheesecake with fresh strawberries and most of a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. The conversation had roamed over the usual superficial issues—movies his parents had made, war stories from her early years on
the force, how he'd gotten into politics—and even as he slid his credit card into the leather folder in which the waiter had left the check, Grant realized he didn't want to simply say good night.
"Are you up for a walk?" he asked.
"I don't think either of us is safe to drive, but what about your knee?"
It wasn't a no. "The doctor says I'm supposed to walk a little, to keep it from stiffening. Besides, I don't intend to walk very far."
She smiled. "Sure. Why not?"
It was a beautiful spring night of the sort that Washington got too few of. Past the gray, drab chill of winter, not yet the clinging humidity of summer. Along the Potomac, cherry blossoms were in bloom. Around the Mall, vacationers would be strolling, standing in awe at the Washington Monument or in sadness at the Vietnam Memorial. On Fourteenth Street, streetwalkers would be hawking their wares. On Constitution, homeless men and women would still seek the warmth of steam rising from subway grates. Here in Georgetown, well-heeled young professionals emerged from brownstone town houses to stroll along the sidewalks, window shopping, talking quietly, sometimes laughing too loudly, often ruminating silently about the day's business.
It was, Grant thought, a curious place to call home. Yet he had come to feel at home here, in a city where transience was the norm. It was a city in which one could put down roots quickly, because so few others had any. If you'd been here through two elections, you were a local.
"Funny," he said.
"What?"
He shrugged. "I grew up in Florida. Traveled some with my parents, but by and large they tried to give me a sense of groundedness there. And yet…this feels as much like home as anywhere."
"You've been here for what, eight years?" Karen asked. "Hardly surprising that you've made yourself comfortable."
"It's not that," he said. "It's…"
His thoughts roamed in rapid free-association. When he'd moved here, it had felt like commuting. Tampa was home. This was where he worked. When had that changed?
