Capitol Threat (23 page)

41

H
ere he was again. Sitting at home. Alone. Because he had stopped taking calls days ago. It was too dangerous to make any. And his lover of seven years wouldn’t speak to him.

At least the police had finally removed the crime-scene tape. That was a relief. He could pretend that his home was, once again, his home. Also home to a hostile roommate. But home.

Roush had never expected to be here. Never expected the nomination to advance this far. Maybe, truth be told, that was the real reason he had come out of the closet during his acceptance speech in the Rose Garden. Risky, ballsy, controversial—but if he derailed his own nomination, then it could never proceed far enough to uncover his real secret. The one for which he still bore the guilt. His failure would be attributed to homophobia, not any problem on his part, and the secret would remain secret.

Except that no matter how he might privately want this nomination to die, it didn’t. Hammond was working too hard. Sexton was too influential. Even Kincaid was helpful, in a goofy sort of way. They kept pulling his fat out of the fire. And only he knew how disastrous that could be in the long run.

They all acted as if he had been physically raped when those paid whores started rattling on about gay bars. Not him. He knew that would come out. He hadn’t anticipated all the lies about orgies and threesomes, but that was okay. Ironically, it had backfired, ended up reinforcing the claims of homophobia, especially when it was proven that the witnesses—at least some of them—were liars. Paid liars.

The truth always emerges, eventually.

That’s what he was worried about. It was not possible to keep a secret in this town. At least not for long. Certainly not forever.

He tiptoed down the hallway to Ray’s door, then knocked gently.

No response.

Probably wasn’t locked, but he wasn’t going to test it. If Ray had shut the door to his room—the room in which he’d been sleeping for the past many weeks—he’d done it for a reason. Nothing good could come from entering a room where he wasn’t wanted. It had been so long since the two of them slept in the same room that Roush couldn’t even remember when it was. Before this endless media conflagration. Before his life was turned topsy-turvy. Which was mostly his own fault.

He just hoped Ray wasn’t avoiding him for the wrong reasons. Not that there was a right reason. But if there were more to it than just his irritation, his humiliation at having his private life made public…

Well, Roush preferred not to even think about that.

Was withdrawing still an option? Could he decline the nomination, after so many had done so much to keep him in the game? How would he possibly explain it?

He couldn’t. And so, tomorrow, he would dutifully walk into that Caucus Room, waiting to hear sixteen people decide his fate. With his friends, support staff, and co-workers. All the while knowing that, of all the hearts beating on the Roush confirmation team, his was the one that had the least faith in the nominee.

When Jessie Matera turned thirty—not yet a senator, but close—she had blown her first perfect smoke ring. Since then, she had mastered the art. She didn’t smoke much; she didn’t smoke cigarettes at all. But occasionally, in times of great stress or jubilation, she allowed herself a good old-fashioned stogie. Why should the boys have all the fun?

Except tonight, it wasn’t working. This was her third attempt, and it still wasn’t right. More oblate than circular. Like the shape of the earth as viewed from outer space.

“Care for a smoke, Richard?”

Trevor reacted as if he had been offered a sneak peek at a porn flick. “I don’t smoke, Jessie.”

“Sure? Might relax you a little.”

“I’m fine. Smoking is a vice.”

“You seem a bit uptight tonight. But then, you always do.” She passed the humidor toward the young man in the blue suit. “Try one.”

“No thank you.” Trevor smiled a little. “Jesus never smoked.”

Matera took a long drag on her cigar, then exhaled. “Jesus never lobbied Congress for favors, either.”

“In a way, he did. When he turned over the tables in the temple and tossed out the moneylenders—”

Matera raised a hand. “Spare me. I’m too old for fairy tales.”

“Are you suggesting that the Holy Bible is not the word of God?”

“Perish the thought.” She took another long drag. “I know the party line. Every word contained in the Bible is literally true. Just like it says in the Gospels. Even though the Gospels contradict each other constantly, they’re still all literally true. Somehow…”

Trevor pointed a finger. “Don’t be sacrilegious with me. I won’t tolerate it. I can withdraw my funding—”

“Don’t threaten me,” Matera said, cutting him off. She didn’t have to point. She could get her message across with her eyes. “You need me.”

“You need me, too.”

“That, unfortunately, is correct. I mean, I don’t, not really. I couldn’t care less if Roush gets to wear a black robe. And I’m not planning to run for reelection, as you know. But I do care whether I get nominated for the vice presidency. I’d make a damn good Vice President. And our current Commander in Chief seems to share my opinion. All he requires in exchange is that I serve as his personal lickspittle and perform every nasty job he needs done between now and then. A small sacrifice for such a distinguished position, don’t you agree?”

Trevor looked at her directly. “Hasn’t been a Republican Vice President named in the last twenty years that didn’t have the support of the Christian Congregation.”

Matera covered her mouth and yawned. “You don’t have to wave your dick at me, Richard. I already know how big it is.”

“I don’t appreciate that kind of talk.”

“I know. Jesus probably never said ‘dick,’ either, did he?” She put the cigar to her lips and savored the slightly woody aroma. “What’s your big interest in this thing, anyway? Is it just that you want what President Blake wants?”

“The President wants what I tell him to want.”

“As I suspected. So why are you so dead set against Roush? He’s a smart man, you know. A good judge. Fair. Rational. Has actually read the Constitution.”

“The man is a sodomite. That’s still illegal in some states, you know.”

“So is spitting on the sidewalk. Seriously, though, is that all? You oppose him because he’s gay? ’Cause that’s a dying cause, you know. And I say that as a prominent Republican senator who raked the man over the coals about his gayness during the hearings. I can see the handwriting on the wall. This is another form of prejudice, and future generations aren’t going to look on you any more favorably than current generations look on the KKK.”

“The Bible expressly forbids—”

“You’re talking about that bit in Leviticus, right? Which was written about…what, 1750
B.C
.? That was the Bronze Age, for pity’s sake.”

“I had no idea you were a Biblical scholar. I myself just read the words and follow them, and the Bible says, ‘A man shall not lie down with a man—’ ”

“Except, taken in context, it’s talking about a married man, right? It’s saying that it’s still adultery, even if you aren’t having intercourse with a woman.”

“That’s not how I read it.”

“And God didn’t say anything about homosexuality in the Ten Commandments, did he?”

“No, but—”

“So this Biblical imperative didn’t even make the top ten. Did Jesus say anything about it?”

“Not that we have a record of, but—”

“So in the end, it’s just that one Bronze Age passage from Leviticus. And scholars aren’t even sure what it’s saying.”

Trevor lowered himself into the nearest available chair. It had been a mistake to meet Senator Matera in her office. Something about being on her home turf gave her too much confidence, just as the fact that she wasn’t running for reelection gave vent to a singularly unpleasant rebellious streak. “Satan produces false evidence to tempt the weak. Sometimes even people of great power can be weak.”

“Oh, don’t be so touchy. I’m not trying to threaten your narrow little worldview. I can’t oppose the Christian Congregation and we both know it. I’m just curious. Is that really all this is? Political gay bashing? Pandering to the public distrust of anyone different from themselves?”

Trevor hesitated. “I happen to believe the President made a mistake when he nominated Thaddeus Roush.”

“But you must’ve approved it. Or he never would’ve done it.”

“We didn’t know then what we know now.”

“Namely, that he’s gay.”

“That’s just the tip of the iceberg. An indicator of so much more that’s wrong with this man. It’s a mental illness, you know.”

“Being gay is a mental illness?”

“Many prominent psychiatrists have said so. On the record. Even in these PC times.”

“Would these prominent psychiatrists be members of the Christian Congregation, by chance?”

“That’s neither here nor there. The Mark Foley scandal did incalculable damage to our cause. This could be even worse.”

Matera rolled the cigar between her fingers, still eyeing her companion closely. “You’re a stubborn man, you know that, Trevor?”

“I believe the same could be said of you, Senator,” he replied, with a tiny intimation of a grin.

“Did you by chance have a better candidate in mind?”

Trevor tilted his head to the side as if trying to decide how much was safe to say. “I prefer a national hero to a national disgrace.”

“Right. Haskins.” Matera was sad to see that her cigar was almost at its end. She really shouldn’t have a second, not at her age. Even during times like these. “Is Haskins on board with this?”

“I think he has made it clear that he would be willing to step in, if called, assuming he felt there was sufficient support for his nomination. But he wants no part of the effort to defeat the Roush nomination.”

“Understandable. So you’re sure he’s your man?”

Trevor stared at her through steepled fingers. “There is a…well, a test pending, if you will. A loyalty test. A measure of determination. Or character.”

“Stop talking in riddles. What’s he got to promise? To bury
Roe v. Wade
?”

“He needs to prove he’s someone we can work with.”

“Someone who will take orders when given?”

“I liked it better the way I said it.”

Matera shook her head. “You’re a devious man, Trevor.”

“I prefer to think of myself as a clever strategist.”

“As you wish.” She ground her cigar butt into an ashtray. “Think this is going to get out of committee?”

“I’m not sure. But it doesn’t much matter. If it doesn’t get out of committee, that makes everything so much easier. But I have to be prepared for every contingency. That’s what clever strategists do. When they play to win. And I always play to win. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.”

“So that’s it, then. Never mind the qualifications, the record, the man himself. He’s gay, and you’ve decided that homosexuality is an unforgivable sin, so he’s going down. The sad thing is, I can’t even criticize you. I know you honestly believe what you say. For you, it’s a matter of faith.” She paused. “I just wish your personal faith had less to do with judgment and more to do with mercy.”

Matera sighed, stood, and stretched. It wasn’t the cigar smoke, but she nonetheless had a strong desire to take a bath. “I think this meeting is over, my friend. We both know where we’re going.” She shook his hand again, then clapped Trevor on the shoulder. “I really wish you’d have taken that cigar.”

42

L
oving and Trudy sashayed into the back room, arm in arm.

“Will you stop that already?” Loving muttered.

“What’s that, sugar?”

“Don’t—” Loving bit back his words. There were a lot of people in the room. Mostly naked men and totally naked women. Not many of either were paying attention to the new arrivals. “You’re…swinging your hips.”

“That’s what girls like me call
walking.
”

“Do you have to walk so…provocatively?”

“I am what I am.”

“Well, actually, you’re not.”

“Details, details.”

Loving swore silently. “Do you see Renny?” He’d been so concerned about winning the arm-wrestling match and getting in here, he’d almost forgotten the primary mission. They had to find the mysterious Renny, the man who had instructed Trudy to take Victoria to the Roush press conference. Which she didn’t leave alive.

“Not yet. Why don’t I work the room?”

“Okay. What’ll I do?”

“What you do best. Stand there and look tall and manly.” Trudy leaned over and gave him a peck on the cheek.

Loving’s reaction suggested he was about to resort to fisticuffs.

Trudy held up a finger. “Temper, temper.” She winked. “Sugar.”

She sashayed off to the right. And Loving knew this because he was watching.

He closed his eyes and mentally chastised himself. Ogling a guy! A guy who looked like a really spicy chick, sure. But still a guy!

Loving mopped his brow. He had to keep his attention on the matter at hand. Renny.

The back room was far more glamorously appointed than the club outside. Loving was no expert on furniture, but he knew this was stuff of a higher order. Plush satiny chairs and sofas, lots of mahogany and oak. Most of the men in here looked foreign. Collarless shirts. Accents he couldn’t distinguish. Eurotrash.

There was a lot of sex going down in the room, in all manner of positions and combinations, but that wasn’t the half of it. A couple of the men in easy chairs were getting lap dances. One had his pants down; the other was jerking off while he watched the lap dance one chair over. These women were clearly of a higher order: well groomed, fit, statuesque, beautiful. Many of them had a foreign cast to their features. Mail-order Russian women? Loving wondered. Lured over with the false promise of marriage, only to end up strutting and grinding in this high-class dive? He hoped not.

Loving turned his eyes away from the various performances taking place throughout the room and directed his attention to the wall. There was a painting hanging just beside him, a beautiful oil depicting an Old World wooden ship at sea caught in a storm and many men on board trying to bring it to rights. Loving didn’t know much about art, but he was certain he’d seen this picture before. But where?

Now that he noticed, there was a lot of art in the room, not only paintings, but sculpture and mobiles descending from the ceiling, and brightly colored Pop Art stuff that he hated. He had no idea if it was real or reproduced, valuable or Wal-Mart, but it certainly gave the room a different look from the usual illicit sex parlor. Why did Renny bother? Did he really expect anyone to notice an art show while he had a naked seventeen-year-old undulating in his lap?

He returned his attention to the painting, and a memory sparked. It was a Bible story, that was it. This was the
Storm on the Sea of Galilee,
and those men scrambling all over the boat—the fishing boat—were Jesus’s disciples. This depicted the scene before Jesus walked across the water. He’d heard the story a million times when he was a kid in Sunday school. Maybe that was why the painting looked familiar. Maybe he’d seen it in church?

No, there was something else, something more. He just couldn’t remember what it was.

Someone crept up from behind. “Found him, sugar.”

Loving pivoted. “I told you not to call me ‘sugar.’ ”

“I know. That’s pretty much why I do it.”

Stay calm, Loving told himself. You still need her.
Him!

“So you found Renny?”

“Yeah. Wasn’t easy. He had his face stuck in—well, you probably don’t want to know.”

“You’re right.”

“Anyway, he’s done now. Let me introduce you.”

Loving followed Trudy across the room, trying to ignore the various forms of immorality and debauchery taking place all around him. He wasn’t normally that much of a prude, but this place was making him sick. All these people making out—if you could call it that—in front of a Bible-story picture! It just wasn’t right.

He glanced at the painting one last time. Why did that picture bother him so much?

Loving found his quarry slumped in an easy chair upholstered in what appeared to be a corded green brocade—very fancy. Renny had that slightly dazed, vacant expression that Loving knew as the sure sign that the man had recently emptied his seminal vesicles. Loving supposed he should be grateful for the opportunity to question the man while he was in a dissipated, semi-comatose state.

Renny’s eyelids fluttered. He looked up at Loving, who from his angle must have appeared to be about forty feet tall. “Trudy say you wish to speak to me?”

He had a thick accent—Russian, Loving thought, but he couldn’t be sure—and a salt-and-pepper mustache and beard that was no doubt supposed to compensate for the thinning hair on the top of his head. Loving introduced himself, providing as little information as possible. “You know—or I should say, knew—a woman named Victoria.”

His lips turned up in a sweet, trembly smile. “Ah, sweet Victoria. Such boobies on that woman! Not real, of course. But I have not been such a man as would care.”

Loving pursed his lips and tried again. “I was wondering why you asked Trudy—”

“Trudy! Yes! Another fine example of the woman.”

“She’s—he’s not a woman.”

“Such a nitpicker you are. Trudy is charming and very pleasant for the eyes. What more does a man require?”

“Well…”

“Most importantly, she is so agreeable. She will do anything I ask her to do, you know what I say? Absolutely anything. All I do is pass a little money her way every now and then and she is mine to command. Every man should be so lucky as to have such a willing slave.”

Beside him, Loving saw the topic of conversation doing a slow burn. Trudy was angry.

“But enough chatter about people such as these. Why do you ask me questions?”

“I’m trying to find out why you asked Trudy to escort Victoria to the Thaddeus Roush press conference.”

Renny shrugged happily, still basking in the easygoing state of afterglow contentment. “That is easy to explain.”

“It is?” Loving considered himself pretty good at this sort of thing, but even he hadn’t expected the man to talk this quickly. “Why?”

“Because Victoria—such a lovely woman, but she did not drive.”

“That’s it? ’Cause she couldn’t drive?”

“What can I say? A wonderful woman Victoria was. Extremely talented. In so many unexpected ways. But she grew up in Manhattan. She never learned to operate a motor vehicle.”

“But—” Loving tried to suppress his growing frustration. “There must be some reason you arranged for her to go to the press conference. I’m pretty sure she didn’t have a press pass.”

Renny’s eyes lowered. For the first time, Loving had the sense that he was thinking before he spoke. “Ah. But there you touch on matters of business. I cannot discuss matters of business.”

Loving squatted down till they were eye level. “That ain’t good enough. A woman is dead. An innocent man has been accused. This could affect who does and doesn’t end up on the Supreme Court. You’re gonna have to talk.”

“Ahh…I think not.”

Loving leaned forward. “I think so.” He reached for the man’s collar.

“That would not be such a good idea.”

“Oh yeah? You think you could take me?”

Loving felt a hand on his shoulder. Trudy. “That’s not what he means, sugar.” Trudy jerked her head backward.

Loving did a quick scan of the room. They were hard to see. The spotlights on the walls focused upon the art objects, creating blind spots in unusual places. But when Loving forced himself to focus, he was able to detect at least four men standing about the room, one against each wall. They were not paying the slightest attention to the women in the room. They were watching him and Renny—their boss, no doubt—very carefully.

Muscle. Hired muscle.

Renny shrugged. “So you see, Mr. Loving, we are at an impasse, are we not?”

Loving backed off. He could take those creeps one at a time, but they were unlikely to come at him one at a time. That’s why there were four of them.

“This isn’t over. I’ll be back.”

“I think not,” Renny said, supremely confident. “It will take more than a strong arm to get you in here again. You will never get past the bouncers at the front door. So I fear that this is farewell, my friend.”

Loving gritted his teeth. Much as he hated to admit it, the man was right. How would he ever get in here again? He wasn’t a police officer, and even if he were, what would be the basis for a warrant? Even if he put on a Sherlock Holmes–type disguise, he’d probably never be able to get back in here again. He’d played his hand and lost. What a fool he’d been! He should have seen this coming. He should have—

“There’s a back door behind the green sculpture,” Trudy whispered in his ear, pointing.

“Huh?”

“Go.” Trudy leaned forward over Renny’s easy chair. “And just for the record, I never liked working for you, and you still owe me money, you Ukrainian creep!”

Renny looked almost as puzzled as Loving felt.

Trudy turned her attention back to Loving. “Count of ten, sugar.”

“Huh? What are you gonna do?”

“What I do best. Create a diversion.” Trudy winked. “Count of ten.”

Loving began counting. Trudy disappeared. And ten seconds later, the lights went out.

A gun fired in the darkness.