Capitol Murder

Synopsis:  Capitol Muder (Book 14 in the Ben Kincaid series)

William Bernhardt's bestselling novels featuring Oklahoma defense attorney Ben Kincaid capture
the bare-knuckles reality of high-stakes criminal defense, as lofty ideals of justice clash with
power, corruption, and wealth. In Capitol Murder, Bernhardt's hard-charging hero takes on his
most shocking, headline-making case yet.
Kincaid's legal success has earned him a dubious reward: a journey through the looking glass into
the Beltway. Here, in the heart of the nation's capital, a powerful U.S. senator has been caught
first in a sordid sex scandal, then in a case of murder.
Senate aide Veronica Cooper was found in a secret Senate office beneath the Capitol building, on
Senator Todd Glancy's favorite couch, blood pouring from the knife wound in her throat. The young
woman's death comes on the heels of the release of a sordid videotape depicting her and Senator
Glancy in compromising positions.
With the senator's reputation in tatters, the evidence against him-as a sexual predator and
possibly a killer-mounts. By the time a nationally televised murder trial begins, Kincaid and his
team know they're facing the challenge of a lifetime. According to public opinion, and even in
Kincaid's most private thoughts, Glancy is one more politician who cannot admit his own
culpability.
But while a dramatic trial unfolds in the courtroom-loaded with pitfalls, traps, and an
astounding betrayal-another trial is taking place on the mean streets of D.C., as Kincaid's
investigator pursues a young woman who was a friend of Veronica Cooper's, plunging Kincaid into a
bizarre world of Goths, sadomasochists, and a community of self-proclaimed vampires. Somewhere in
this violent underworld lies the secret behind Veronica Cooper's demise . . . and the crux of
Senator Glancy's innocence or guilt.
In a case that pits Kincaid and his freewheeling partner Christina McCall against the brutal
machinery of Washington politics, the answers they seek are hidden in a murderous maze of lies
and hidden motives. And in William Bernhardt's best novel yet, getting to the truth is an
unparalleled experience in pure, satisfying suspense.

I’d like to tell you that I made up all the information Shalimar and Morticia offer regarding
real-life vampires, but of course I didn’t. For those who would like to learn more about this
growing American subculture, I recommend
Piercing the Darkness: Undercover with Vampires in
America Today
by Katherine Ramsland, and
Bloodlust: Conversations with Real
Vampires
by Carol Page. In case you’re wondering, the epigraph by Ty King comes from “Some
Assembly Required,” a second-season episode of
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
, easily one of
the best-written television shows ever produced. Homages to Buffyspeak and the Buffyverse
permeate this book, as seemed appropriate.

I am greatly indebted to the sources who have supplied information about the workings of the
U.S. Senate, but who, for some odd reason, have all chosen to remain anonymous. Special thanks to
Jodie Nida and James Vance for reading and commenting on an early draft of this manuscript.
Friends and readers of this quality are invaluable.

Readers are invited to e-mail me at [email protected], or to visit my official website
at www.williambernhardt.com. See you next time.

—
WILLIAM BERNHARDT

In my dream, I’m alone in my bedroom. The window is open and there’s a breeze, gentle, but
ominous; cool, but foreboding. I’m dressed in nothing but a sheer full-length nightgown,
white—always white—with a dangerously provocative dŽcolletage, my neck entirely exposed. I feel
shivers coursing down my spine and gooseflesh on my arms. At first I think it must be the wind,
but then I realize there’s something more, something lurking just outside my window. All I can
see is a billowing fog, insubstantial, shapeless shadows that cross my windowsill and enter of
their own accord. I am terrified, but at the same time exhilarated by my intense desire to know
what will happen next.

When he materializes, he is barely two feet away. He stares down at me with eyes that are
piercing, relentless, but also calming and nurturing. They invade me, deep down into my soul and
I feel violated, swept away, breathless. I already love this man, this creature, his jet-black
hair, his tall gaunt frame, his pale translucent skin, even his thin lips, slightly distended on
either side. I give myself to him willingly, heedlessly, aching for his touch. He takes a step
toward me, then another, never once moving his eyes from mine. After what seems an eternity of
wanting, he lays his hands upon my shoulders. I want to scream, not from terror but from
pleasure, from the sheer overpowering rapture of the moment. My knees weaken but he holds me
firm, one strong arm around my waist, as his mouth draws close to me, nearer and nearer still,
and his mouth descends with an excruciatingly sweet slowness toward my neck . . .

When it finally happened, it was nothing like that, yet everything like that, everything in
every way that mattered. I was not in my bedroom, but somehow our clandestine location, in these
ornate surroundings he so appropriately calls a church, lent a sense of danger that magnified my
yearning to crazed, almost unbearable proportions. I was dressed in a dark ceremonial robe, not a
nightgown, but my seducer made short work of that, releasing each clasp with his pale, gelid
fingertips, while never once releasing me from the hypnotic gaze of those unrelenting ebony
eyes.

“I’m yours,” I whispered, more to myself than aloud.

“And I will have you,” my companion replied.

“I want you to know,” I said, my voice choking, my tongue thick with desire, “that this is my
first time.”

A barely perceptible rise to the corner of my companion’s lips exposed a flicker of
incandescent white teeth. “And your friends?”

“They’re different,” I answered. “I don’t know if they’re ready. But this is what I’ve always
wanted, what I’ve dreamed about.” My hunger was so powerful I could barely think, barely breathe.
“Please take me. Take me now.”

I watched as the object of my longing drew near to me. When I first felt teeth electrify my
flesh, I could not help but let out a cry.

“You are not ready,” my companion said.

“I am,” I insisted, desperate to propitiate my master. “Please don’t go. Please. I just—it
caught me by surprise, that’s all. I’ve never felt anything like that before. Never felt anything
so . . . overwhelming.” I was gasping, begging, a cat in heat, consumed by this internal inferno
that I could not quench. “Please give me another chance.”

“As you wish, my child.” This time, when he made contact, I winced, but did not flinch, did
not gasp, did not pull away. As my companion slipped inside me, I felt so many sensations and
emotions at once I could not identify them all: fear, pain, violation—but also an ecstasy, a
mind-chilling bliss. The penetration went deeper, then deeper still, turning me inside out,
bringing to life parts of me that had never been touched before. I was overcome by a rush of
unbridled passion, and a sweetness I had never imagined possible. I had slipped the bonds of this
mortal plane and found another place, a higher dimension of unspeakable pleasure.

I don’t know how long the sensation lasted: an hour, a minute, a moment. I had lost the
ability to stand, to speak; I was in a place that transcended time. I was aware of some
commotion, some attempt to interfere, but it was all so distant, so remote, and my master’s
minions were strong enough to prevent any interruption. I was so far gone the spell could not be
broken—not until I felt my own hot blood trickling down my breast.

“Was it all you dreamed it would be?” I heard him ask.

“Oh yes. Oh yes yes yes.”

“I’m glad. Farewell, sweet Colleen.”

“What?” I said, trying unsuccessfully to raise my head. “What’s happening?” I was slurring,
listless; a numbing torpor enveloped my entire body. “I feel . . . weak.”

“Of course you do.” My companion swooped me up and laid me gently on the altar, cushioning my
head. “You’re dying.”

“But—why?” I managed to murmur.

“So that you will live again,” was the reply. “So that we will become one.”

My consciousness faded. I heard footsteps, near and far, but the bleeding did not stop. I
realized that I was covered with blood. How could anyone bleed so much and still live? This was
not the way it was supposed to happen. This was not the way my dreams ended. But that is the
problem with dreams, isn’t it? Somewhere between the conception and the execution is a vast
abyss. And the name of that abyss is Death.

As Ben Kincaid peered at his client through the acrylic screen, he was startled by how
appealing, how downright cute she still looked. Usually, the first few weeks behind bars took a
terrible toll on first-time inmates. The lack of sunlight, the coarseness of the company, the
absence of hair care and beauty products, the low-watt institutional lighting, the inevitable
depression—all conspired to make the newly incarcerated appear as if they had emerged from the
ninth circle of hell.

But not Candy Warren. Somehow Candy had managed to retain her fresh-faced charm. When her
father first introduced her to Ben, he had compared his daughter to Lizzie McGuire—perky,
effervescent, goofy but lovable. Two weeks in the slammer and a switch from Gap jeans to TCPD
orange coveralls hadn’t changed any of that. She was still adorable. She even had her hair up in
pigtails.

“So you’ve talked to my daddy?” she asked, speaking into the telephone receiver that allowed
them to communicate.

“Yes,” Ben answered. “He’s worried about you, of course. But I assured him we would do
everything we could. And I got him the present you wanted to send. The Hilary Duff poster.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” Ben loved the way her nose crinkled when she laughed. “Can you believe
it? The man is in his sixties, and he’s crazy about this girl who’s barely a teenager. Isn’t that
wild?”

Ben could think of a different word for it, but never mind that. Always refreshing to have a
client who still cared about her parents. “I have some good news for you. To my utter surprise,
DA Canelli has made an offer.”

“An offer?” She lifted her chin, giving those pigtails an endearing bounce. “What kind of
offer?”

“A plea bargain. A chance to avoid trial.”

“Assuming I plead guilty.”

“To a lesser charge. Yes.”

Candy kneaded her hands. Ben noticed that her fingernails were painted electric pink. “But
what will my daddy say?”

“What will he say if this goes to trial?”

“Aren’t I entitled to my day in court?”

“Yes. But that day is fraught with risk. Canelli is offering you a sure thing.”

She sat up straight, throwing her shoulders back. “I can’t do it. I can’t take the easy way
out. I owe that much to my daddy. And while we’re talking about this, Ben, I want you to do
something about those newspapers.”

Ben didn’t follow. “Which newspapers?”

“All of them. Have you read the articles they’ve been printing?” Creases flanked the bridge of
her nose. “File some kind of lawsuit against them.”

“On what grounds?”

“What grounds?” she said with great indignity. “They’ve been saying horrible things about me.
They’re libeling my reputation! Destroying my good name!”

Ben shook his head. “Candy . . . you’re—”

“Ben, don’t. You know I have labeling issues.”

“Nonetheless—”

“Ben, I don’t want to hear—”

“Candy . . .” Ben cleared his throat. “You’re a hit man.”

She gave him a stern look. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry. Hit
person
.”

“Better.” Her face hardened; the adorable factor vanished. In the space of a second, she went
from Lizzie McGuire to Lizzie Borden. “Now, what are you going to do about those goddamn
newspapers?”

Ben drew in his breath. “Nothing. A libel suit would be frivolous, given the circumstances,
detrimental to your criminal case, and so utterly stupid that if you really want to do it, you’re
going to have to find yourself another lawyer.”

She glared back at him with eyes like Uzis. “Then what do you suggest?”

“I suggest you take the DA’s deal.” He hung the phone receiver back in its cradle. “Be seeing
you, Candy.”