“I don’t think we’re being set up,” L.J. assured him. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll come and get you.”
He knew she would. “Take care of Duke while I’m gone.”
“I will,” she promised.
The phone call from John Frobisher came late that afternoon. The image of the teddy bear was back as he explained how he was in town on business and was wondering if she was free to discuss an important issue that had come up. At first L.J. pleaded that her schedule was full for the day. Then he said that Ann Silton had offered him a job as her vice chairman on the president’s task force on the environment. “I’m awfully busy right now,” she said, “but if you’re free this evening, why don’t we meet for dinner?” He agreed, and she asked, “Where are you staying?” He mentioned a hotel in Fort Worth. “The Petroleum Club, say, seven tonight?” She gave him directions before hanging up.
She immediately dialed another number. “Elana, I need something new for dinner at the Petroleum Club tonight.” She laughed at Elana’s response. “Yes, it’s for a man. What’s he like? Well, he reminds me of a teddy bear I loved as a child.” She paused, deciding what more Elana needed to know. “He’s very well connected politically.” Again she laughed at Elana’s reply. “No, I don’t think I’m interested in him romantically.”
L.J.’s eyes opened wide when Elana suggested a dress-and-coat ensemble she had bought over a year ago. “Are you sure?” she asked. Elana assured her it was the right dress if she wanted to keep “all” her options open and make a statement.
The elevator stopped at the fortieth floor of the Union Pacific Resources Building. The doors opened silently, and L.J. stepped out. She glanced around and saw Frobisher standing by the big window overlooking downtown Fort Worth. The club was sending the message she wanted—exclusivity and influence. But everything was in balance: secure and established, yet mainstream and in touch with their world of power and decision.
She walked toward him, certain that he saw her in the reflection from the glass. Frobisher turned and for a moment was speechless. Her dress was a simple, low-cut chemise that reached almost to her knees. He wasn’t sure what color it was, as it changed color with the light, turning from a dark, very rich brown into a darker shade of golden blue, then back. It was simple, demure, and yet incredibly sexy. Only the matching dress-length coat fashioned of the same material made it acceptable for the more conservative members of the club.
“Impressive,” Frobisher murmured. They shook hands.
“I thought you’d like it,” L.J. said, fully aware that he was paying both her and the club a compliment. She looked around. “I like it because the decor is so, well…old-fashioned. I’m not sure if it’s Regency or Empire.”
Frobisher gave her his best grin. “It looks more like Old Petroleum to me.” Their laughter joined as they strolled toward the dining room.
Curtis, the maître d’, was waiting for them. “Good evening, Miss Ellis. Mr. Frobisher, I presume.” Frobisher nodded, pleased that he was recognized. “The work you did on saving the whales was truly admirable.” Frobisher beamed at the compliment.
“Curtis is one smooth-talking devil,” L.J. said.
“I hope that’s a compliment,” Curtis replied.
“It most certainly is,” she replied.
Curtis escorted them to a corner table set for two and held the chair for L.J. She sat against the wall under an exquisite painting of a French château, while Frobisher sat at an angle to the big windows, able to see the panorama of lights below them. Since it was a quiet evening, Curtis had not sat anyone at the table next to them, which offered them some privacy while showcasing L.J. “We have a new hors d’oeuvre you must try,” Curtis said. “It’s leg of quail, deep-fried with a hollandaise sauce, cilantro, and pink peppercorns.”
“That sounds absolutely wicked,” L.J. said.
“It had better be, or we’ll fire the chef,” Curtis replied. He handed Frobisher a wine list and disappeared.
Frobisher studied her for a moment. “I take it you like him.”
“Curtis is probably the best maître d’ in town,” she replied, “and I admire anyone who is very good at his—or her—chosen profession.”
The hors d’oeuvres arrived and, as promised, were a rare treat. “Now, that’s a finger food,” Frobisher allowed.
“Only in Texas,” she murmured, sucking her fingers clean.
Curtis caught the message halfway across the room and wondered what it was doing to Frobisher’s blood pressure. They fell into an easy conversation while he kept a watchful eye, sending the wine steward or a waiter at the right time. He personally took their orders and urged the chef to give their requests special attention.
The evening was drawing to a close when Frobisher reluctantly turned to business. “I was surprised when Ann called me with the job offer,” he told her.
“Ann is a wonderful person, but…well, very inexperienced in certain aspects. I think you know what I mean.” Frobisher nodded in agreement. “You can fill in her weak spots, and I think you should take the position.” She could tell that Frobisher was still undecided. “I honestly doubt if she can do it without you,” L.J. said.
“Ann can be very difficult to deal with at times,” Frobisher confided. “Especially if she thinks a feminist issue is involved. I’m just not sure if I want to put up with all that.”
“Keeping her focused may be where you can help the most.” Frobisher was almost convinced. She reached across the table and touched his hand. “Think what you can do. It’s an opportunity you can’t pass up.” She paused to let it sink in. “It’s been an enjoyable evening, John, but I’ve got a busy day ahead of me tomorrow.” She gave him a lingering look over her wineglass.
“Thanks for the advice,” he replied, “and the wonderful dinner. I was impressed.”
That was the idea, L.J. thought. She gracefully rose and led him to the elevator.
Curtis was waiting by the entrance to the dining room and bade them a good evening. He watched them as they waited for the elevator. Then they were gone. The wine steward joined him for a moment. “My God! Did you see what she was wearing?”
“Very hard to miss,” Curtis allowed.
“She was certainly sending out the signals.”
“Actually, I think she was vamping him,” Curtis said.
“Did he fall for it?”
“Oh, yes.”
L.J. had her second friend at court.
L.J. dropped her dress on the floor of her dressing room and stared into the mirror. Why am I doing this? she moaned to herself. What’s wrong with me? There was nothing wrong with the image staring back at her. She was wearing no bra and only the briefest of panties. Her breasts were still firm and her stomach flat. She looked over her shoulder and examined her derriere in the mirror. Again, as perfect as it could get. She stepped out of her shoes and sat down. Slowly she removed her stockings. Her legs were smooth and taut. She slipped out of her panties and stood up, still appraising herself in the mirror. John’s a nice guy, likable and cuddly and, maybe, under different circumstances…? So why are you doing this to him? She knew the answer. The elephant.
She kicked the dress into a pile in the corner. She would never wear it again. She walked into her bedroom and slid under the down comforter. She curled up and for a moment felt like crying. Then she turned out the light and went to sleep.
Andrews Air Force Base
Special Agent Toni Moreno-Mather shifted in her chair. Being pregnant, she could never get truly comfortable. But she had work to do. She flipped through her notes before fixing Stuart with a concerned look. “I turned the Bondo you gave me over to the Arlington police, and they sent it to the forensic lab for analysis. It’s from the same batch they found on your Explorer.”
“What exactly was it doing there?” Stuart asked.
“Best guess? Whoever sabotaged your brake lines used a light coating to hold everything together. A hard or prolonged application of the brakes
would cause the Bondo to let go, the brake fluid to drain out, and the brakes to fail.” She checked her notes again. “They also disabled the brake-failure warning light. Sounds like the work of a real pro.”
“But why me?” he asked.
“Good question,” she replied. “Come on. We’re meeting Ledbetter and Smatter at your place.”
“Why them?”
She shrugged. “That’s the way the system works. They were assigned to your case.”
“My case?” he said, feeling sick to his stomach.
She gave him a concerned look. “You are their prime suspect.”
Stuart fought the panic that threatened to engulf him. Until this moment he had never really believed he was a suspect, sure that it was all a misunderstanding that would go away. “Do you think I did it?”
“I just go with the evidence,” she said. “Where’s your car?”
“At home. I rode the Metro to work and took the shuttle bus here.”
“Do you mind driving my car?” she asked.
He shook his head and felt better. At least she trusted him to drive. He took that as a good sign. They drove in silence to his apartment, and he parked on the street. Ledbetter and Smatter were waiting for them, and neither looked friendly. When he got out, the panic was back. “Wait a minute,” he muttered to Toni. “This is Washington, and they’re from Arlington. Do they have jurisdiction here?”
“The accident occurred in Arlington,” she said. “The D.C. police were more than happy to waive jurisdiction.”
Stuart fought the urge to get back in the car and drive away. But it wasn’t his car, he was home, and it was late afternoon. He felt like a condemned man as he led the way down the alley and unlocked the garage. “It’s been locked since you found the Bondo?” Ledbetter asked. Stuart nodded and raised the door. “Hold on,” Ledbetter said. He reached inside his coat and pulled out a folded paper. “Search warrant” was all he said. “Don’t go in.”
The panic was back, and Stuart’s hands shook as he read the warrant. Since he had never seen one before, he handed it to Toni. She glanced at it, and again the shrug. “All in order.” His eyes darted from Ledbetter to Smatter and back again as they methodically searched the garage. Smatter bent over and picked something off the floor and put it into a small plastic evidence bag. He carefully noted the time and location on the bag after sealing it. Again, the skinny detective reminded Stuart of a weasel as he worked. A very dangerous weasel, Stuart thought.
He couldn’t stand to watch the detectives and went inside to change out of his uniform. After a few minutes he wandered back outside to see if they were finished.
“Well, well,” Ledbetter said, carefully holding what looked like a big tube of toothpaste. “What do we have here?” He held the tube up for Toni to see. The label clearly identified it as Bondo. “I’m willing to bet that it matches what we found on the Explorer and the floor.” A wicked smile played across his broad face. “With a little luck your fingerprints will be all over it.”
Something inside Stuart snapped. “How stupid do you think I am?”
“Plenty,” Smatter answered. He looked at Ledbetter, who nodded in reply. “Michael E. Stuart,” Smatter said, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Grant DeLorenzo. Anything you say—”
Stuart didn’t hear him say the rest as he watched Ledbetter pull out his handcuffs. “I don’t believe this!” he shouted.
“Believe it,” Smatter growled after he finished Mirandizing him.
“Why would I show you all this if I had done it?”
“Because you’re a smart-ass,” Ledbetter said, snapping the cuffs on his wrists, “and you think we’re dumb shits.”
“Colonel Stuart,” Toni said, her voice firm and commanding, “don’t say anything else. You need a lawyer.”
The panic was back, claiming Stuart’s emotions. “A lawyer! I haven’t done anything!” He looked at her, pleading his case. “Do you think I’ve done anything wrong?”
She didn’t answer.
Nothing in Stuart’s experience had prepared him for the reality of being booked and charged with a crime—not TV, movies, or novels. Experienced criminals learn, often the hard way, to go with the flow and not buck the opening moves of the lockstep sequence called the criminal justice system. But for the average citizen caught up in the process for the first time, it’s a devastating ordeal. All the normal courtesies and freedoms taken for granted are gone, and Stuart was never asked to do a thing. Instead he was pushed, prodded, and propelled through the rigid chain of events as if he were a dumb animal being rendered for meat-packing.
But what upset him the most was the fingerprinting process, when a wisp of a woman with small, bony, and incredibly strong hands took his prints. When she was finished, she handed him a small dry paper towel to clean the ink off his fingers. But without any soap, no amount of rubbing could clean off the ink. His dirty fingers were the stain he shared with the other inmates in the holding cell as he awaited arraignment the next morning.
“Hey, bud,” a grossly overweight and shaggy cellmate barked, “whatcha lookin’ at?”
For a moment Stuart was sure the challenge was the prelude to the rape that popular wisdom held as the informal part of the process. He held up his fingers. “How do you get your hands clean?” he asked.
“Who gives a shit?” another cellmate asked.
“Shove ’em up your ass and swish ’em around,” a voice from a corner said.
The shaggy bear stared at him. “What the fuck you in for? Child molestin’?” A dark rumble worked its way around the cell, and Stuart looked for a guard. Would one come if he yelled for help? The mumbling grew louder when he didn’t answer, and his panic was back in full force. “Asshole here has a sweet mouth,” the shaggy bear said. “Maybe he’d like being on the receivin’ end of some man-boy lovin’ for a change.”
“Yeah,” the voice from the corner said. “Don’t like no child molesters ’round here.”
“I’m charged with murder!” Stuart blurted. The cell fell quiet, and the bear moved away. Murderers were the aristocrats of the criminal class and accorded a special respect, provided the deceased was a criminally correct victim. Even felons had standards.
“No shit?” the voice from the corner said. “Who’d you shank?”
Stuart sensed the change, and for the first time his anger broke through. “I didn’t shank anyone.”
“Yeah. Right.” A righteous denial was expected. “So who was the deceased?”
“My wife’s boyfriend.”
A low murmur of approval worked its way around the cell. If the victim had been a child, Stuart would have discovered what “cruel and unusual punishment” really meant. “Hey, man,” the shaggy bear said, “sometimes a man’s gotta do what he’s gotta do.”
The next big surprise was the food. It was terrible and all but inedible. According to jailhouse wisdom, the cooks worked to make it that way, and anything approaching palatability was immediately fed to stray cats and dogs. Astonishingly, most of the men wolfed it down, claiming they had to keep up their strength.
The booking sergeant had warned Stuart that he would be spending the night in jail until he could appear before a judge for arraignment and bail Friday morning. But Stuart didn’t know what a night in jail meant. It was a noisy place, filled with shouts and groans as men wrestled with their subconscious and bad dreams. One man two cells down had a screaming fit that required a medic and four guards to control, and even under heavy sedation he continued to moan and grind his teeth.
Finally it was light, and Stuart waited impatiently for a chance to meet with his lawyer before arraignment. Again the process was impersonal and lockstep. “You just say ‘not guilty’ when the judge asks how you plead,” the lawyer explained. “Otherwise don’t say a thing. My job right now is to get you out on bail.”
“How much will that be?”
The lawyer thought for a moment. “They’ll probably hit you with an open-ended mu
rder charge for now. My best guess, with a little luck, two hundred thousand.”
“I don’t have that much! I know my folks don’t.”
“That’s why there’s bail bondsmen. Figure ten percent.”
“Twenty thousand dollars?”
“You want to stay another night in jail? Last night was tame. Wait until tonight. And you don’t want to be within ten miles of this place on a Saturday night.”
Stuart shook his head and joined the line of suspects being arraigned for various crimes. Two hours later he was in the courtroom awaiting his turn in front of the judge. His heart missed a beat when his lawyer walked in with his father and General Butler. “What’s General Butler doing here?” Stuart asked in a low voice. His lawyer didn’t answer as the clerk read the charge against him.
“How do you plead?” the judge asked.
“Not guilty,” Stuart croaked, sounding anything but innocent.
“Bail?” the judge asked.
“This is a charge of murder,” the deputy DA handling the arraignment said. “We believe one million dollars is in order.”
Stuart almost fainted. “Your honor,” his lawyer said, “Lieutenant Colonel Stuart provided the police with the only evidence possibly linking him to this crime. He has a spotless record and is in the Air Force, currently assigned to the Pentagon. Lieutenant General Franklin Bernard Butler is here to vouch for him.”
Butler stood up, but before he could say a word, the judge asked, “You’ll vouch for him?”
“Yes, sir,” Butler answered. “Colonel Stuart will appear as ordered.”
“Bail is set at two hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” the judge said. “Next case.”
“What happened to the two hundred thousand dollars?” Stuart mumbled as he was led away. His next stop was a holding cell as he waited for his father to make bail. Much to his surprise, that was the most efficient part of the process, largely because he was now dealing with the free-enterprise system and was considered a sure thing to appear. But it was still late afternoon before he was released. Shanker was waiting for him outside.
The Trojan Sea Page 18
