America the Beautiful

by Laura Hayden

  The only trouble was . . . learning about others was scary. It made her feel unclean. She justified doing it by telling herself she was following Jesus’ admonishment to “render unto Caesar that which was Caesar’s.” Kate believed that if a person aspired to become a temporal power, then that person should live by temporal laws. Any failure to do so called into question that person’s suitability as a leader. And leadership was important. The country she loved needed not just good leadership but excellent leadership—the kind Emily had demonstrated in the past. If Emily’s opponents couldn’t live up to Emily’s potential as a leader, Kate felt that it was both the right thing and the Christian thing to make sure the public had at its disposal all the facts to make a good decision.

  On the more personal scale, digging into other people’s backgrounds was time-consuming, so much so that Kate worried that her much-anticipated family Christmastime might be melting away right before her eyes. It took time, patience, and ingenuity to burrow deep into the landscape of a person’s life in order to dig up . . . something. Anything. To find fault or guilt or evidence wherever it was—hidden, dormant, or forgotten.

  She told herself that discovering the truth was no sin, but still she wondered if she was merely trying to justify her actions. Even though Kate’s goal was to ferret out the truth and not to make up any falsehoods, this kind of work always left a bad taste in her mouth and dirt under her nails. She told herself every time her conscience screamed at her that, unlike some other well-known political advisers, she stuck strictly to the truth. She made sure that her evidence was ironclad before she shared it, much less used it. And she never, ever used anything she found against an innocent—unlike those political activists who slammed innocent kids for using government benefits they were entitled to, back in the battles over funding the State Children’s Health Insurance Program.

  But the truth could be a weapon against their opponents. By signing on to the political game, Kate figured they also signed on to have their backgrounds checked, their lives exposed, their pasts examined minute by minute. And if they didn’t know that, they were fools.

  Emily was sinking in the polls. She needed a weapon. It was Kate’s job to find it.

  In fact, Emily needed more than a weapon. She needed a thermonuclear device to use against her opponent rather than a mere slingshot.

  And if Kate wanted to have any semblance of a Christmas holiday, exactly where was she going to find an armed and ticking warhead in less than a week?

  Contrary to popular belief, Kate didn’t know where all the bodies were buried. Neither did Emily Benton or any other candidate. No single political pundit or media maven knew all the answers. But thanks to one source she’d carefully cultivated, Kate did have a fair idea of what questions to ask.

  And of whom.

  She punched in the number on her cell phone from memory, having never trusted it to a silicon chip or a piece of paper. There were some things you never wrote down.

  A voice answered, “And you want?”

  “Caller ID has certainly had an impact on basic telephone etiquette. I’d hoped we could start our conversation with something like ‘Good afternoon’ or ‘How are you today?’ or simply, ‘Hello.’”

  Carmen del Rio’s laughter wasn’t particularly harsh, but neither was it warm and inviting. “I forget you have some semblance of manners. Please forgive me. Good afternoon, Miss Rosen. How may I be of assistance?”

  “I need some direction,” Kate said. “On a delicate matter.”

  Carmen had the phlegmy, raspy cough of a lifelong smoker. “Don’t you always? Who, this time?”

  “Mark Henderson.”

  The woman sounded tired and not the least bit surprised at Kate’s request. “Let me check my files. I’ll call you back in an hour or so.”

  As the various candidates of both parties had begun to declare their intentions to run for president, Kate had started building a dossier on each person who expressed any serious interest in the race. She examined every aspect of their lives that she could with her available resources. As she often told Emily, Google was a girl’s best friend.

  Kate didn’t stop with just the candidates. In addition, she delved deeply into the lives of each candidate’s inner circle of campaign advisers.

  “Know thy enemy.” It was a necessary mandate in the world of American politics.

  She knew there was no shame in digging up old records, looking for details concerning the candidates’ pasts, because she knew that the opposition returned the favor in full, with interest, delving into her background too.

  Of course, Emily’s life had been an open book thanks to her larger-than-life family, and Kate’s life was beyond boring in comparison to practically anyone in politics.

  Thanks to the unconditional love of her parents, who made sure she’d had a strong moral grounding—not to mention Kate’s personal commitment to Christ from a young age—Kate had barely gotten detention, much less ever made any police blotters. The worst thing she’d done as a rebellious teen was sneak out to meet a girlfriend at the midnight movies. She’d faced the usual temptations of youth but hadn’t got caught up in the claws of drugs or alcohol. Her mundane temptations weren’t the kind that made front page headlines or dossiers put together by other candidates.

  Most political types, she knew, hadn’t been so lucky.

  Kate knew which campaign workers for the opposition had expunged juvenile records. She knew what sort of crimes they’d committed and which ones had been whitewashed away. She knew which adviser had bought himself out of a college cheating scandal, which campaign manager’s underage sister had been prominently featured in a Girls Gone Wild video. She knew which three candidates liked to watch porn in their hotel rooms. She knew who had DUIs, who’d done rehab, who had lapsed, and who’d stayed sober. She knew who had edited their Wikipedia entries and why.

  It was a telling comment on her generation and its amusements, she supposed, that the file containing her distilled knowledge about her opponents’ frailties was so thick.

  And it’d taken a lot more than a batch of gourmet cookies to get that kind of information.

  Kate had gone at her various targets in a roundabout way. She’d done her share of straight research. She had even occasionally hired help.

  But instead of breaking her back and the bank trying to send out a dozen different investigators to claw through the lives of a dozen different presidential contenders, she’d put a great deal of time, effort, and substantial cost into finding the goods on one person: the biggest power and information broker in D.C.

  Carmen Maria Angelina Conchita del Rio knew everything about everybody and kept most of it to herself. The first time Kate met her, the woman had reminded her of one of those Hollywood stars of yesteryear. It was as if Carmen had thrown the names and appearances of Carmen Miranda and Dolores del Rio in a margarita blender and donned the result. To look at her dark beauty—fading now but still apparent in the purity of her bone structure—no one would ever guess that Carmen held and protected the secrets of hundreds of politics’ biggest names from all parties. She looked more like she should star in Sunset Boulevard than like the repository for cataloging all the worst acts of America’s political underbelly for two generations.

  But that’s what she was.

  What was known for certain about Carmen del Rio was that she’d worked as a research assistant for the Washington Post. She had been very good at her job and never forgot a single fact, figure, or detail. Later, she became a secretary in the FBI office that handled all of the District’s black bag jobs. Beltway rumor had it that she’d helped make the worst of J. Edgar’s secret files disappear by stuffing the most dangerous ones in her underwear and taking them home. That was pure speculation.

  When asked about it, Carmen always derailed the questions by swearing she’d never worn underwear when she was a young woman.

  A statement like that usually got conversations moved into a whole different direction fa
st.

  There were rumors that before she’d joined the Post, she’d been a CIA operative, a call girl, the mistress to two presidents, a nude model, a madam, a gospel singer, and a dozen other improbable occupations.

  What wasn’t speculation in the District was that Carmen had, for many years, been the person to go to when somebody needed insider information on anyone in Washington’s political, social, or business scene.

  These days Carmen was no longer dependent for her support on her information business. She’d married one of the wealthiest and most influential businessmen in the area and lived in an ivory castle west of the Potomac. Although she reigned over a staff of servants who waited on her hand and foot, she still paid close attention to whispers on the east side of the river.

  What Kate knew as fact was that Carmen’s vast knowledge of who was who, and what they’d done to get there, extended as far north as Boston and as far south as Atlanta. No gossip, rumor, innuendo, or whisper escaped her attention or her assessment. But Carmen had long since retired from her information-brokering business, to the relief and dismay of politicos everywhere.

  So Kate had tried a different tactic on Carmen. Even if Kate could bring herself to attempt blackmail, it would have been useless. No matter how awful the deed attributed to Carmen was, she wore the legend of her past like a badge of honor. Perhaps it was because she could buy anybody and everybody off. Or perhaps it was because her life was so colorful that any new chapter of debauchery merely added to the aura.

  Whitemail—now that was another issue entirely. The day Kate learned that the “open book” of Carmen’s life was nothing more than a carefully crafted work of fiction was the date Carmen del Rio became permanently in her debt.

  Kate’s incredible good luck occurred the day her own mother casually mentioned that a picture she’d seen of socialite matron Carmen Maria Angelina Conchita del Rio looked incredibly like CarrieAnne Rivers, who had been her best friend in sixth grade, when her father had been assigned to Fort Sam Houston while in the army.

  It had been an innocent comment that gave Kate a unique starting point for her journey of research. As a result, she unraveled the long and involved tapestry that CarrieAnne/Carmen had woven for herself out of whole cloth once she left San Antonio to seek her fortune. Of the laundry list of career paths she’d supposedly taken, she’d definitely been a secretary. And a gospel choir singer.

  The rest? Kate never found a single trace of evidence to support those wilder claims.

  Armed with the facts, Kate had struck a deal with Carmen; in exchange for Kate’s silence about Carmen’s completely innocuous past, the woman would help guide her in any reasonable investigative request.

  However, there was a definite protocol to follow. Kate’s requests had to be made with the same deference that she would show a respected elder in her own family. In return, Carmen would never quite hand her the smoking gun but would only point to where that smoking gun might possibly be found, often still in the hands of the person who pulled the trigger.

  Through the years, Kate had found it to be an effective working relationship. Carmen’s uncheckered past remained a closely guarded secret.

  Kate’s cell phone rang fifteen minutes after making the initial call.

  Carmen never identified herself, but then again, her rasp was unmistakable. “Henderson just made a radical flip-flop on a federal wetlands bill today. Money changed hands three days ago at the Grand Ambassador Hotel on Twelfth. Find the security camera feed from the elevator. The guard is young, greedy, and impressionable. Get the goods from him before he gets a better deal from someone else.”

  “Thank you.”

  Carmen hesitated, then answered, “You’re welcome,” as if she hadn’t had much practice saying the phrase often or to many.

  This time, Kate did have the number she needed in her speed dial. District Discreet had a double-D logo, which made most people assume the company might be an escort service. But instead, District Discreet was one of the most efficient and effective private investigation agencies in the Metro D.C. area, with reciprocal licensing in the District, Virginia, and Maryland. The fact that its owners, Lee Devlin and Sierra Dudicroft, were both statuesque blondes with impressive double-D attributes had been a happy coincidence.

  Or so they said.

  “Lee? Kate Rosen here.”

  “What can we do for you and Madam President?”

  Kate smiled at the optimism. “From your mouth to God’s ear. What we need is a little footwork to uncover a piece of security footage from the Grand Ambassador, three days ago. The interchange took place in one of their elevators between Mark Henderson and persons unknown. Money exchanged hands.”

  “Usual terms?”

  “Agreed. I’ve heard that the informant is on the hotel’s security staff and is both young and greedy.”

  “I’ll call back when I have something.”

  “Thanks, Lee.”

  Four hours later, Kate was home, trying to chip a frozen dinner out of her freezer when Lee called back.

  “Can you meet me at the office? Actually, in the garage of the building?”

  “Now?”

  “It’ll be worth the effort.”

  Kate abandoned her dinner plans with some relief in favor of fast food on the way. She polished off the last of her meal as she turned in to the parking garage and took a moment to wipe away a smidge of ketchup from her chin. While looking in the rearview mirror, she saw movement behind her in the well-lit garage.

  Her doors were locked, a lifetime habit reinforced by D.C.’s unusually high crime rate. Reaching over to her purse on the passenger’s seat, she kept her eyes on her surroundings as she found the canister of pepper spray she kept there. The spray would be more of a detriment than a defense if she tried to use it within a small, closed space like the car. But she wanted it at hand.

  She angled the mirror, trying to find the source of the movement, and was surprised and relieved when she saw Lee Devlin headed her way. Kate unlocked the car and had barely moved her purse out of the way before Lee opened the passenger door and sat down.

  “Head there,” she ordered, holding out a shop directory for the Fashion Centre at Pentagon City.

  Kate complied without asking questions. Visuals without verbal explanation usually meant Lee was concerned about being overheard. It took fifteen minutes to finally get across the Fourteenth Street Bridge, into Arlington, and into the parking deck for the shopping center. During that time, Lee fiddled with Kate’s car stereo and didn’t say a word.

  Kate doubted seriously that her car had been bugged but figured Lee’s sense of caution was a good idea. If Lee was wrong, no harm done. If the woman was right, it might mean preventing a world of hurt.

  Once parked, Lee motioned for Kate to follow. They ended up in the bottom floor food court of the mall. Lee found an empty table in a corner and they sat down. Reaching into her briefcase, she pulled out a personal DVD player and a set of earbuds. She plugged them in and offered Kate one bud.

  “Cloak-and-dagger usually isn’t your style,” Kate said as she accepted the earpiece. “You were really that concerned that my car was bugged?”

  “Why take chances? Besides, this stuff is that hot.” Lee started the player.

  The color footage was crystal clear, not the grainier security camera version Kate had expected. It was probably a testament to the level of precaution and protection employed by the Grand Ambassador, which was known for its discretion when catering to and protecting highbrow clientele. Conversely, such stiff security measures meant that its patrons might be surprised at how few truly private corners the hotel possessed.

  A man stood in the elevator car, his craggy face in profile. The door slid open and Mark Henderson entered. His aide-de-camp tried to enter as well, but Mark shook his head. “Not enough room. Take the next car.” It was clear that there were only the two men in the elevator and ample space, but the aide nodded and stepped back out of view.

&nb
sp; The door closed and the car rose a few feet. Profile Man—he looked familiar enough that his identity lurked on the outskirts of Kate’s memories—reached over and hit a series of buttons that stopped the car with a slight jolt, but surprisingly the action didn’t fire off any alarms. That was suspicious from the get-go.

  “Here.” The man held out an envelope, which Henderson accepted, then opened, revealing a thick wad of bills. “Twenty grand. Just like you said.”

  Kate stared at the scene as if it were something out of a bad movie. Cash? In this day and age? Any smart candidate realized there were easier ways to move funds, legally or illegally, than handing over a wad of cash. Henderson couldn’t be that stupid, could he? Would he, like one member of Congress, try to hide it in his freezer in packages of frozen food? She thought the man had more class than that, not to mention brains.

  Kate smelled a setup. She turned to Lee, who was also watching the screen closely but wearing a smile as she did it.

  “You don’t expect me to believe this, do you?” Silently, she added, Carmen didn’t think I’d fall for this, did she?

  Lee shook her head. “Don’t worry—just keep watching.”

  They continued to look at Henderson and Profile Man as they held a cryptic conversation straight out of a grade-Z movie, complete with stilted dialogue, monotone delivery on Henderson’s part, and gross overacting on the part of Profile Man. It was as if he had to compensate for the lack of talent of his wooden costar. It was like a really bad grade school production of Law & Order.

  The proverbial bell rang in the back of Kate’s head.

  She hit Pause on the machine and the action froze.

  She knew exactly where she’d seen Profile Man before. It was on an episode of that very show, Law & Order. A couple of years ago, the young son of one of her legal secretaries had been a bit player in an episode. Everyone in the office had attended a party on the night the episode aired. The proud parents kept playing back their child’s key scenes in the courtroom. Profile Man had played the evil villain against whom the young witness had testified.