Capitol Murder (27 page)

Ben did his best to exclude all such witnesses, but Herndon ruled that it went to the issue of
both motive and the likelihood that Glancy might leave a meeting to engage in “inappropriate
relationships.” So it came in. Padolino put a succession of three women on the stand—all of them
young, all of them pretty.

The first, a senatorial aide, claimed that during a meeting of the Atomic Energy Commission,
Glancy put his hand under the conference table and between her legs. According to her, when she
looked at him, shocked, he whispered, “My dear, you’re as cold as ice. Would you like to conduct
a little science experiment? Let’s see if we can generate some spontaneous combustion.” The
second, a member of the Senate secretarial pool, claimed Glancy had stumbled into her elevator
late one evening, drunk as a skunk, belched, put his hand on her breast, and slurred, “Sssorry. I
missstook you for a doorknob.”

Christina whispered into Ben’s ear. “Am I the only one who’s like,
ickk
?”

“No, I’m pretty sure there are others,” Ben whispered back. “Sixteen of them, to be exact. And
they’re all sitting together.”

Glancy remained quietly impassive throughout the testimony.

The most damaging was the third, which was undoubtedly why Padolino had saved her for last.
She claimed to have been interviewing for an intern’s position in Glancy’s office, the position
later held by Veronica Cooper. This put it in the realm of employment-related sexual harassment,
which was not only contrary to federal law and actionable in civil court, but also grounds for
immediate expulsion from the Senate, as Senator Packwood had learned several years before.

“He kept saying, ‘Hiring is so difficult. You can’t make an informed decision unless you’re
aware of all the candidate’s talents.’ And then he unzipped his fly.”

“Did he . . . make a request?” Padolino asked.

“He didn’t have to. It was obvious what he wanted. I told him I wouldn’t have sex with a
stranger just to get a job. And you know what he said? He said, ‘Hey, it’s not like it would be
real sex.’” She pursed her lips. “Obviously, he was a Democrat.”

Ben didn’t bother asking his client if any of these incidents actually happened. They didn’t
directly pertain to the murder. And Ben didn’t really want to hear the answer. He was much more
concerned about what was going on at the prosecution table. Padolino had effectively completed
the day with what at best could be called filler witnesses. Damaging, perhaps, but not
that
damaging.

If this was the best he had left, he would’ve ended with Tidwell. Which led Ben to an
inescapable conclusion. There was something more. Some
one
more. Some killer witness
Padolino had saved so he could end with a bang. But who could it be? What could there possibly be
left to say?

The question troubled him deeply. Because as every good attorney knew, the key to a successful
defense was anticipation. No matter how bad the testimony, if you can see it coming, you can come
up with some way to deflect it, to undermine it, to deflate it, to make it seem less than it at
first appeared to be.

But if you didn’t know what was coming, you were like a floundering fish waiting to be
speared. Dead in the water.

Loving stared at the young woman bearing both the determined expression and the crossbow aimed
at his chest. “Have I . . . uh . . . done somethin’ to offend you?” he asked.

“Your very existence offends me, Dracula.”

Loving furrowed his brow. “I think you may be confused.”

“Am I?” She was so close now the tip of the crossbow bolt was barely a foot away. “How do you
figure?”

Loving pointed to Daily. “He’s Count Dracula. I’m Renfield.”

Daily spun around. “Now wait a minute—”

“You think that’s funny?” She pushed the tip of the bolt to his chest, right over his heart.
“You won’t be laughing once I send you into instant cremation.”

Loving held up his hands. “Look, lady, you’ve got the wrong idea. We’re not vampires.”

“I suppose you were in there just for the free crudités.”

“I was in there as part of an investigation. That’s my job. I’m a private investigator.”

“Do you think I’m stupid? I was watching you. I saw that rouged-up Vampirella bite your
neck.”

Ah
. Now Loving was beginning to understand where the woman was coming from. “And why
do you care?”

“Because that’s
my
job,” she spat back. “I’m a vampire hunter.”

Loving and Daily exchanged a look. “Did you say what I think you just said?”

“Don’t get smart with me!” She jabbed him with the tip of the bolt. “I won’t take any crap
from a reanimated corpse.”

Loving held up his hands. “Lady—do you have a name?”

“Why should I tell you?”

“I’d just like to know who I’m talkin’ to before you, uh, slay me.”

She hesitated, her narrowed eyes spewing anger. “You can call me Shalimar.”

“And you’re a . . . vampire slayer.”

“
Hunter
! Not slayer!”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is this is real life, not some TV show.”

“Fine. Vampire
hunter
.” He paused. “Do you need a hunting license for that?”

Her teeth clenched together. “Wiseass undead hellspawn. I’m taking you down.”

“Look, Shalimar, I’m not a vampire. You fire that bolt, you’ll be committin’ murder.”

“Prove it.”

“Prove it? How do I prove I’m not a vampire?” He snapped his fingers. “I got it. I’ll follow
you home.”

“What? Why?”

“If I can sneak into your place without an invitation, that means I’m not a vampire,
right?”

She raised the crossbow higher. “I warned you—”

“Or we could get Italian. After you see how much garlic I put on everythin’—”

“Cut it out!”

Loving tried another tack. “You got a cross on you?”

She hesitated. “Several.”

“How did I guess? Gimme one.”

“Why?”

“So when I don’t burst into flames or cower or hiss or anythin’, you’ll know I’m not
undead.”

Slowly, Shalimar reached inside her Windbreaker and produced a small wooden cross. She held it
out to him. Loving took it into his hand . . .

And screamed. “Aaaaaah!” He dropped the cross and pressed his hand to his chest.

Shalimar jumped, crossbow at the ready. “
What
? You monstrous—”

Loving held up his hands. “Jokin’, jokin’.” He picked the cross up off the pavement and
squeezed it. “See. Nothin’. I’m not a vampire.”

Shalimar pursed her lips, furious. “Him, too.”

Daily took the cross, didn’t joke around, didn’t turn to flames.

Slowly Shalimar lowered her crossbow. “I guess you’re clean. You should be more careful about
who you make out with.” She shrugged. “Sorry if I startled you.”

“Think nothin’ of it,” Loving replied. “Happens every day. But lemme tell you—there’s nothing
in there but a lotta pathetic whack jobs tryin’ to convince themselves they’re special by copyin’
scenes from bad horror movies. I didn’t see anyone who didn’t reflect in the mirror over the
hearth.”

“More pretenders.” She released the bolt from her crossbow and slowly edged it back into the
quiver on her back. “Damn.”

“Lady, they’re all pretenders. There’s no such thing as vampires.”

“You’re wrong. They do exist.”

“Where? Universal Studios?”

“History is replete with documented vampires. The novel
Dracula
was based on a real
vampire. Lady Caroline Lamb, the Victorian poet, was a vampire. There have been many books
written on the subject.”

“Ma’am,” Loving said, “with all due respect, I’ve been known to buy any number of off-the-wall
theories. But even I don’t believe some lady poet was really a vampire. Know why? ’Cause there’s
no such thing!”

She looked at him with a sad, pitying expression. “That’s what they want you to believe.”

“Oh, for Pete’s—”

“Are you familiar with Rousseau?”

“The actress?”

“No, the eighteenth-century French philosopher and writer. One of the smartest men who ever
lived. He said—and this is an exact quote—‘If ever there was in the world a warranted and proven
history, it is that of vampires: nothing is lacking, official reports, testimonials of persons of
standing, of surgeons, of clergymen, of judges; the judicial evidence is all-embracing.’”

“The man was cracked. With all due respect, Miss Shalimar, people don’t rise from the dead, no
matter who they’ve been suckin’ on.”

“Do you know the disease porphyria? It’s a genetic disorder that causes receding gums—which
can make people look like they have fangs—and also creates hypersensitivity to sunlight and an
enzyme deficiency that can cause people to crave blood.”

Loving pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lady, you’re . . . what? Twenty-one, twenty-two? You
should be in a sorority or the Junior Service League or somethin’. When did you get started
chasin’ vampires?”

Her eyes narrowed to a dull pinpoint of light. “After they took my sister.”

A synapse fired somewhere inside Loving’s brain. “What was your sister’s name?”

She looked at him for a long while, as if trying to evaluate whether she could trust him,
before finally answering. “My sister’s name was Beatrice. Why do you ask?”

Ben waited quietly, wringing his hands under the defense table, desperate to know who the
prosecution’s pièce de résistance would be. He’d pored over their witness list, but that was no
help—there were at least thirty uncalled witnesses remaining, and as far as he knew none of them
had anything sensational to say. He’d tried to wheedle the information out of Padolino, who
wouldn’t give up anything but kept pestering Ben for Christina’s phone number. His associates
were apparently under threat of bodily injury not to talk. Ben had scanned the courtroom, the
hallway outside, even the men’s room, but hadn’t been able to spot anyone who wasn’t normally
present.

“Maybe you’re wrong,” Christina said, with an attempt at solace that was painfully unavailing.
“Maybe there is no killer finale. They’ve already put on enough to make their case.”

“But possibly not enough to win it.” Ben shook his head. “No, if this was all he had, Padolino
would’ve closed with Senator Tidwell. Or the video. There has to be something more.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Glancy grunted. “My staff is equally clueless.”

“Not for want of trying.” Amanda Burton stood behind her man, the usual unpleasant expression
on her face. “I’ve called all my connections in the Senate and the law enforcement world. They
haven’t been able to tell me anything.”

Shandy, her blond hair tucked behind her ears, nodded. “Marshall’s come up dry, too. And if
Marshall can’t find it, it isn’t available. Oh—I almost forgot.” She pulled a sealed envelope out
of her satchel. “This is for you, Boss.”

Glancy held the letter between his fingers. “Should I read it now, dear? Or in private?”

She smiled. “It can wait till later.”

“Thanks.” He tucked it into his coat pocket. “It’s a comfort to know I have such dedicated
people taking care of business while I’m stuck in this trial.”

“Speaking of which,” Shandy said, turning toward Ben, “you look cute as a bug in Todd’s
navy-blue Brooks Brothers.”

Ben glanced at the suit he was wearing. “What, this old thing?”

Shandy laughed. “Fits you much better than that blue rag you were wearing twice a week. What’s
‘Dillard’s,’ anyway?”

Ben stiffened slightly. “Dillard’s is a first-rate Oklahoma-based chain of department
stores—”

“But Ben doesn’t shop there,” Christina interjected. “He shops at a consignment store and buys
the hand-me-downs of people who shop at Dillard’s.”

Ben adjusted the knot in his necktie. “Nothing wrong with a little frugality.”

Judge Herndon’s clerk entered the courtroom, closely trailed by the man himself. The judge
greeted everyone, gave the usual admonitions to his sequestered jury, then got down to business.
“I especially want to remind the members of the press in the audience that no disturbances,
outbursts, or unruly behavior will be tolerated. And that goes for the nonpress personages in the
gallery as well.”

Herndon had never started the day with anything like this before. Did he know something Ben
didn’t? Was there some reason he foresaw the possibility of an outburst?

“Mr. Padolino,” the judge said, leaning back in his chair, “please call your next
witness.”

“With pleasure.” Padolino rose, smoothed the crease in his jacket, then addressed the court.
“The District calls Miss Shandy Craig.”

“What?”
Ben hadn’t meant to say it aloud, wasn’t really even conscious he was
speaking. He turned, along with everyone else sitting at counsel table, to face the rear of the
gallery. Sure enough, lovely Shandy rose to her feet.

She was not surprised.

“I don’t believe it,” Glancy said, under his breath.

Christina, Marie, the rest of Glancy’s staff, and everyone in the gallery who knew the players
seemed equally stunned, including a few of the people sitting at Padolino’s table. Well, that’s
the best way to keep a secret, Ben thought grimly. Tell no one.

Shandy started down the nave of the gallery, composed, her chin slightly raised, moving
without hesitation. Marshall Bressler was seated in his wheelchair toward the front on the
defense side. As she approached, he turned his wheels outward slightly, blocking her
progress.

Shandy stopped. The two made eye contact. Even without telepathic powers, Ben felt confident
he knew what message was being communicated by the senator’s administrative assistant to his
young protégée.

You traitor.

Shandy calmly sidestepped him, passed through the swinging doors, and was sworn in by the
bailiff.

Ben had assumed—had hoped, really—that Shandy’s testimony would focus on the discovery of
Veronica Cooper’s body. Unfortunately, he was incorrect.