Access to Power (12 page)

Frank didn’t know and shook his head.

Grimes laughed again. “Next question.”

Frank couldn’t believe their attitude. When he first walked in, he thought that they’d welcome the news and run with it. Instead, Grimes’s stupid grin was back, and Randolph’s eyes were glazed over like he was sleepwalking.

Randolph tapped his cigarette ash into the trash can and returned to his notes. “You said that you were at a fund-raiser over at the Mayflower, Frank. But the people you were with say you got up from the table and didn’t come back for forty-five minutes to an hour. Where were you?”

Frank hesitated a moment, stunned as he tried to remember. “I have no idea. Talking to a photographer. In the lobby making phone calls. Anything else?”

Randolph swung his head back and forth with his eyes on him. “No. That’s it, Frank. Case closed.”

Frank ripped open the door and bolted out of the detective bureau.

He could see what had happened—Randolph working the case based on the evidence at face value with little or no help from Grimes. But the evidence had been laid out by the killer. They were seeing exactly what the man with spiked gray hair wanted them to see. Alan Ingrams was telling the truth. Frank could feel it in his bones. Woody’s murder hadn’t been an accident and neither had Stockwell’s. The client files in Woody’s drawer had been removed, then put back in reverse by someone working quickly who didn’t recognize the names. That’s why the current files were found buried in the back of the drawer. The man with spiked gray hair had been looking for something in Woody’s office. And he’d gained entry through the locked door to their building because he carried the right tools and knew how to use them.

The murder scene flashed before his eyes.

Frank stared at the pearl handled gun beside Woody’s corpse. He’d been in shock that night, too stunned to catch it.

The pearl handled gun.

Woody didn’t like guns. It was ridiculous to think that his friend even owned one.

A cop stepped into the hall from one of their
peep
rooms. Frank bumped into him, pushed him aside and hustled toward the lobby. The murders were deliberate, the crime scene staged. He needed help, but wasn’t sure where to turn. He knew it now. Woody had been murdered for a reason, not spare change.

Chapter 29

He kept it to himself—what had happened and what he’d learned. Standing by the window in the war room, Frank looked into the parking lot below and saw the Mercedes idling with its headlights on. Jason Hardly was helping Linda with her overnight bag. She was wearing a short black skirt and V-neck sweater with black stockings and shoes. The dark clothing brought out her eyes and lips, the natural color of her blond hair. Frank had given her the sweater and found her whole look stunning whenever she wore it.

Hardly shuffled the bags and finally swung the trunk closed. Then they got into the car and drove off for the airport and what Frank assumed would be a work-love fest in Colorado. Once Linda spent a few days holding the campaign’s hand and putting out fires, she and Hardly would have the weekend to
themselves
….

“You’re fucked, Frank.”

He turned from the window and saw Dick Zain entering the room. Zain’s glasses were so thick, Frank had never been able to tell what color his eyes were. Fingerprint gray maybe, with a smudge of blue. He wore short sleeve shirts all year long and used the front pocket as a combination pen holder and toolbox.

After trying to convince Randolph and Grimes that they were on the wrong track, Frank had returned to the office for another look at Woody’s things. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, although he had to admit that he didn’t really know what he was looking for. When Tracy and the interns left for the day, he’d made the call to Dick Zain. Zain had been at it for less than an hour, with instructions from Frank not to say anything until Linda and Jason Hardly were gone. Now he was dumping two dozen bugs on Tracy’s desk.

Frank felt his spine shiver and popped two more caplets of Tylenol like they were candy. “All these came from Woody’s office?”

Zain shook his head. “No, Frank. The whole fucking place is wired like a Christmas tree. Every fucking office. Every fucking phone. I haven’t checked Linda’s yet, but I’ll bet it’s the same.”

Zain disassembled a pen, shook a part out the size of a pencil eraser and held it to the light so that Frank could see. Zain was clearly impressed.

“Wireless,” he said. “There’s a radio transmitter in the bathroom ceiling. State-of-the-fucking-art. Whoever’s been listening could be anywhere on the fucking Hill.”

The phone rang. Frank glared at it.

“Are we clean?”

Zain shot him a look and smiled. “I fucking hope so.”

*          *          *

Frank couldn’t see the Lincoln Memorial because of all the fog. He stood at the water’s edge, smoking and pacing as he waited for Mario. The night had become chilly. Frank gazed at the huge pool and could see his face reflecting on its surface. The image was cloudy and distorted, the result of the warm water meeting the cooler air and steaming its way into the sky. It was a misty face he saw staring back at him, drawn in blacks and dark grays.

When Mario finally arrived, they started walking along the water’s edge, away from the sounds of tourists hidden in the dense fog.

“Sorry I’m late,” Mario said. “Traffic was bad. None of the traffic signals are working.”

Frank nodded. It had happened before. The mayor of Washington was known for his use of cocaine rather than his ability to manage the nation’s capital. As a result, the city couldn’t afford to pay its electric bill on occasions and the signal lights shut down.

“Who did the sweep?”

“Dick Zain,” Frank said. “Now what have you got?”

“Randolph’s supposed to be a good detective. I don’t know why he’s giving you a hard time. Maybe he’s overworked.”

Frank was finished with Randolph and Grimes. “What else?” he asked.

“The Committee for the Restoration of American Values and Ethics. They use the acronym RAVE, like those drug concerts. They’ve got an office here and another one in Atlanta.”

Frank shook his head. Politics wasn’t the issue tonight. “What about Woody? You did his research. You sure there’s nothing there?”

“People don’t kill people over social security. Not yet anyway. Besides, we’ve got another problem right now.”

Frank gave him a look as they reached a street light. A young couple was passing within earshot—locals dressed in jogging outfits. As Mario stopped to wipe the mist off his glasses, Frank noticed the woman gripping her keys. A small canister of pepper spray was attached, her finger already in position for a possible attack. When the couple vanished into the fog, Mario cleared his throat and lowered his voice.

“There’s a rumor, Frank.”

“What rumor?”

“Your client’s having an affair.”

“Mel Merdock?”

Mario nodded, slipping his glasses back on. Frank got rid of his smoke.

“That’s all he needs. How good’s the rumor?”

Mario grimaced. “I don’t know yet. You know how Stewart Brown is, Frank. Maybe he started it. Maybe he made it up just for kicks.”

Frank thought it over. The Merdock/Kay race might have another issue after all, whether it was real or not. He knew Stewart Brown was capable of making anything up in order to get the win. Even more troubling was how Frank’s worried client would take the news. There seemed to be a limit to what Merdock could handle.

“What do you want me do?” Mario asked, not hiding his smile very well.

“Find out if it’s real,” he said.           

Chapter 30

They were images of a Juliana Merdock look-a-like. She was about the same age and had black hair, only her naked body was fuller, looser, more voluptuous. And Mel Merdock, candidate for the U.S. Senate, looked like he was having a good time with her. He was holding her down on the bed, squeezing and biting her big tits as he rode her like an animal at the rodeo.

Ozzie Olson’s dick got hard as he paged through the series of sex shots on his computer. He tried to fight off his erection because he found the images so disturbing. Especially Mel Merdock wearing that stupid cowboy hat. Still, he couldn’t keep his eyes off those tits.

Olson had photographed Merdock with his girlfriend on three occasions—gone through the kitchen window with his camera three times. These images were part of the first batch when things were relatively tame. Olson had been surprised by how close he could get without being noticed those first two times. He was never in the same room with them, but he didn’t need to be. From the end of the hall, he had a clear shot of the entire bed, even the hot tub in the bathroom. Besides, they had other things on their minds. And both of them were moaners, Merdock even louder than the girl when she did certain things to him.

Olson grabbed his drink, wondering why he’d gone in that third time. That’s when it happened. That’s when it got ugly. He’d been overconfident and moved down the hall. He never should have moved down that hall.

He turned away from the monitor and looked at the phone, wondering if he should call her again tonight or not.

Every time he thought about it his body trembled. He knocked back his drink, resting the glass on a court summons and pouring another. Then he searched his desk for that legal pad. He’d written her number on the front page. Olson’s basement office was a pigsty. He had trouble finding it but remembered putting it in a safe place. When he spotted a stack of bills beneath a discarded bag from Office Depot, he saw the legal pad on the bottom and slid it out.

He looked at the number and read it to himself, still trying to decide. Then he grit his teeth, picked up the phone and dialed. He was calling Senator Helen Pryor, his opponent in the election that he’d lost two years ago. He was calling her in spite of the obvious risk that she might remember the sound of his voice. As he listened to the phone ring, he glanced back at the picture of Merdock screwing his girlfriend. Olson could feel his body raging and decided that it was worth the chance. Merdock and Frank Miles were one in the same thing and they could both eat shit.

Helen picked up the phone from her office in the Russell Building and said hello. The sound of her sweet, calm voice threw Olson off and he cleared his throat trying to regain his composure and sense of purpose.

“If you could only see what I see, Senator,” he said roughly.

“Who is this?”

Olson didn’t answer, noting that she hadn’t recognized him.

“How did you get my private line?” she went on.

A truck was idling outside. Olson closed the basement window and sat down.

“You gave it to me,” he said finally. “We used to be friends, Helen. A long time ago. That’s why I’d hate to see you get
hurt
.”

She didn’t say anything after that. He could hear her breathing. Waiting. What could she be thinking as she listened from the other end?

It had been a mistake, he realized. He shouldn’t have called her. He’d fucked up and shouldn’t have taken the risk. What if she recognized his voice? What if she put it together and remembered?

He slammed the phone down and jumped to his feet, overcome by the shakes. When he guzzled his drink, he choked and spit most of it on the floor. He was tired of drinking cheap whisky and making big mistakes. Tired of thinking about the people who had knocked him down and put him here. It was their fault and he hated them for it.

He looked at the paint peeling beneath the window, his loser office eating him up from the inside out. He threw his drink against the wall and watched the glass shatter. Then he grabbed his jacket and walked out. It was too dangerous being a drunk right now. Things were too tricky. What he needed was hot, black coffee. A whole fucking pot.

Chapter 31

Frank pulled into the driveway, dropping his cell phone into his briefcase. He’d checked in with his service on the drive home. There were thirty-nine messages since he last checked an hour and a half ago. Campaign managers mostly. All in a panic and looking for advice as they faced the day-to-day crisis every campaign worked through this close to election day.

Frank’s goal was a decent night’s sleep. For the past few nights he couldn’t make it past three, tossing and turning until dawn.

He changed into a pair of jeans, slipped on a T-shirt and went downstairs to see about dinner. He made a salad and mixed a dressing together consisting of four tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil to one tablespoon of red wine vinegar with a pinch of salt and imported Parmesan cheese. Then he nuked a frozen lasagna dinner, poured a glass of wine and carried everything over to the game table in the living room.