Senator Love (2 page)

She patted his hand and shook her head. "You men and
your penis envy," she chuckled. He laughed.

"Maybe we can share the joke," Bunkie said.

"We are sharing it," Monte said, noting that
there was no love lost between the two men.

"Won't work out of context," Fiona said as Bunkie
shrugged and turned back to Helga.

Plates were exchanged. An elegantly displayed fish course
followed. Then perfect pink filets along with the French reds. Vegetables were
served with consummate skill. It was, she realized, an orgy of overstaffing, a
pampering, obviously a well-rehearsed and executed event. Someone would surely
get a bonus.

Rich was always better, she decided, feeling again the
profound, guilt-tinged kinship with her colleagues in the cops struggling to
get by, usually with two paychecks and always with constant financial anxiety.
In this environment, she would suffer severe bouts of second thoughts about her
choice of career. Was she really the alien she imagined, the daughter of power
and privilege slumming in a blue-collar ménage?

It was a question posed with ever-diminishing frequency.
The cop hook was in her, the idea of it, the challenge, the danger, the
adventure and, yes, the contrast. Despite the sometime pettiness, the turf and
racial anxieties, the ego and emotional thrashing and bashing, there were
psychic satisfactions in her job that were, well, enriching and worthwhile.
Having her own "fuck-you" money made it even more fulfilling.

The grass only seems greener, she smirked to herself, her
gaze washing over this acre of privilege. Anyway, she decided, as the soft
French red titillated her palate, this ain't all bad.

Between courses the band played dance music and the dance
floor filled with whirling couples.

"Ironies are everywhere," Monte whispered. She
followed his gaze. He was watching a stately woman dancing with a ramrod-stiff
grey-haired man in a two-step that reminded her of dancers in an old movie. No
talk passed between them as they concentrated on the band's rhythm.

"The first Mrs. Langford," Monte said.
"Can't get them to go home once they've seen Paree." Voluble sober,
Monte seemed to be growing even more loquacious with his wine intake, which was
considerable. Problem was that the waiters, to keep the assemblage well
watered, were pouring heavy, leaving no glass untopped.

"Tough when they lose their status," Fiona mused,
remembering her mother after her father had died.

"There's some cache in being an ex-wife. You get to
keep the name, for example." He lifted his chin. "Like her."

"And she goes to the best places."

"She deserves it," Monte said, bending closer to
her ear. "Old Sam certainly unloaded her wagons. Now it's little Nell's
cross to bear." Fiona looked over at Nell, whose pose was of one deeply
interested in what the Ambassador had to say, while her eyes drifted frequently
to take in the sight of the Senator and Helga. On the surface, it seemed to
Fiona as quite innocent. Bunkie and Helga seemed to be doing most of the
talking.

"Ten to one Sam and Helga are locked in an undercover
crotch hold," Monte said.

"A regular gambler," Fiona said.

"I don't gamble," Monte smirked.

"Considering where he wants to go, you'd think he'd
know better," she whispered, surprised at her judgmental tone.

"Can't kick the one-eyed monster," Monte sighed,
taking another deep sip of wine. She turned to look at him, slightly puzzled,
until she realized what he meant, then, like a doe-eyed virgin, she felt
herself blush.

"Sorry to put it that crudely. The man's incorrigible.
Like tonight. Blatant stuff. In a minute he'll be asking all the girls to
dance, little Nell for openers. You included. A red herring for what he really
wants."

"How does he manage it? A man in the public eye?"

"That's old Bunkie's job. He's the staff man in charge
of nooky. Plays the role, though. Beard, pimp, arranger. Also does the kiss-off
routine when things get too hot. Valuable job in this town."

"And nobody knows?" Fiona asked.

"We try to keep it in a tight little group."

"Then why are you telling me?"

She turned to him. He shook his head and smiled.

"You're a cop. I trust you."

After a while the Senator stirred and asked his wife to
dance. As Monte had predicted, then came Bonnie-something, who had barely
uttered a word. On cue, Fiona came up on the dance card. Actually, the Senator
asked Monte's permission in the old-fashioned way. Monte shrugged his consent.
Fiona snickered her distaste. I dance with whomever I please, she told herself
pugnaciously, then let the Senator lead her to the dance floor.

Close up, she felt the tightness of his body, his absolute
sense of confidence in the way he held her. His dance technique, a bit heavy on
the pelvis, was a blatant flirt.

Actually Monte had spoiled her discovery. The Senator was a
natural seducer. She would have liked to find that out for herself.

"You're the prettiest homicide detective I've ever
met," he whispered, pulling her closer for the compliment. Was he making a
move? she wondered. "Maybe someday you can tell me how you do it."

"Do what?"

"Find the killers."

He twirled her around the floor, chuckling. Despite the
warning bells, she felt strangely comfortable in his arms. She even felt, she
allowed herself to admit, tiny tingles in the right places. Son-of-a-bitch had
the stuff, she decided, providing him with a nickname on the spot. Senator
Love. Hands-down that was it. Senator Love.

"Odd work for a politician's daughter, cops," he
said as they moved around the floor. The sexual statement made, he moved to a
more cerebral subject. Even his way of putting her on hold was a class act.
Often, he would nod and smile at the other dancers.

"What did your father do?" she asked.

"A minister, actually."

"Well then," she said, leaving the idea
unfinished. He quickly caught the innuendo.

"We do only the possible and leave the miracles to
God."

Peripherally, she could see his first wife as she
two-stepped toward him. Inexplicably, she found herself resisting his lead as
if the confrontation was to be avoided.

"Hello, Sam," his ex-wife said as she whirled
past. Close up she looked bigger than life, big bosom, a round face. Pleasing
plumpness filled out the skin, holding back any discernible wrinkles. She was a
picture of strength. Hardly an
ex
-anything.

"Frances," he acknowledged, offering a thin
smile. She felt a snicker of contempt escape his lips. No love lost, she
decided. But the greeting seemed quite civilized.

"You have any children?" Fiona asked, embarrassed
suddenly by her oblique curiosity.

"Just two. Eight and six," he said, offering no
details. None with the other, Fiona thought, oddly relieved. The band stopped
and he led her back to the table.

"Now," Monte said as the band struck up again.

The Senator and Helga got up to dance. It seemed a cue for
all the others. The Ambassador and Nell, Bunkie and Bonnie.

"Bad knee," Monte smiled, explaining himself.

"Really?" Fiona asked.

"Time to watch the fun."

They watched. Helga's slender body melted into the
Senator's, although above the waist the dance had the illusion of decorum.

"Surely not tonight," Fiona asked.

"Never at night," Monte clucked. "That's his
modus operandi. He's a matinee man and Bunkie's a past master of scheduling and
timing. Easier to elude detection."

"Does little Nell know?"

"Oh, I'd say she might suspect about the sport
fucking. It's the serious stuff that she's on the lookout for." He looked
at the Senator and Helga intent on keeping their pose casual. "Like
that."

"Must be exhausting work," Fiona said.

"Keeps her on her toes."

Fiona watched them. Without Monte's running revelations,
she might have missed it. They didn't appear obviously improper. Not unless the
idea was put into your mind. Her gaze wandered to the Ambassador and Nell,
talking as they danced. Occasionally, on a turn, Nell looked toward her husband
and his partner. Was it a look of curiosity or anxiety? For a moment, her eyes
narrowed as she watched them, as if she were making a great effort to pierce
the invisible veil in which the two seemed shrouded.

At one point in the dance, the big woman, the ex-Mrs.
Langford, sailed past. She, too, seemed to be observing the Senator and his
partner. When she passed him, she offered a smile. But the Senator was oblivious,
his attention directed exclusively to Helga Kessel. Fiona watched her smile
hold, then fade as she swung out of his line of sight.

The poor bastard is on display, Fiona thought, her
sympathies suddenly with the Senator. In deference to this idea, she allowed
her eyes to wander elsewhere, but only for a few moments. Senator Love drew her
gaze back to him like a magnet.

"HARD NIGHT, FitzGerald?"

It was Cates' clipped exaggerated Bahamian British singsong
pouring into her ear from the instrument that lay beside her on the pillow. She
had heard its ring through the fog of sleep, a relentless assault on her
attention.

She managed to squint into the red digital face of the
clock perched on the antique dresser.

"Six in the a.m., you bastard," she moaned, still
disoriented. "We're cops, not obstetricians."

Four hours, she calculated. That was all she had slept, a
deep pass-out kind of sleep.

"We got old bones," Cates said. She wondered if
he was enjoying the intrusion. She had told him she was going to this party,
had expected a late night. They weren't due until three in the afternoon. All
signs had pointed to a routine day, late shift. In the background she could
hear the relentless cacophony of heavy rain banging against the house.

"Do me a favor, Cates. No cryptic. Not now."

Wine invariably translated into morning headaches. She
imagined there would be other poundings among last night's assemblage, but
inclusion did not comfort her. They simply poured too hard and she had not had
the will to stop her lapping. Poor Monte's loquaciousness had been cut off
abruptly at its source. After he had passed out in the back of their cab, she
had had to half-cajole and half-cart him into the house, where he was now
sleeping it off in the downstairs den.

"Literally old bones, Fi," Cates said, abandoning
his torturous singsong, getting to the serious nub of things, his usual
demeanor.

"Why us?" Fiona said with a sigh, feeling the
sour backwash in her mouth, remembering further. She supposed that in a day or
two her judgement would be that she had had fun at the Pepsi bash. Even the
sudden squall that had crashed down on the party had failed to upset the
festivities. Apparently the host, rather than send the guests home on the river
in the hard rain, had managed to organize a giant fleet of cabs and limos to
return all guests to Washington, albeit two hours later than scheduled.

All that talk about Senator Langford's sex life had been
interesting, of course, although at the moment it seemed quite inconsequential
to her life.

"Again the obvious. It's the eggplant's bigoted sense
of demographics. The old bones are on your turf." He sucked in a deep
breath and she pictured his delicate nostrils twitching, always a sign of his
inherent disapproval. Like her, his Bahamian ancestry, accent and faintly
mulatto skin tone assured his fish-out-of-water status in their inner-city,
black, street-smart environment.

"So once again. Cates, I got to carry you on my
lily-white ass."

"My fate, Fi," he whispered.

Her turf, in the eggplant's mind, was the clearly defined
bounds that housed the power elite. At first she had railed against this
pigeonholing, demanding equality of assignment. There was logic to it, of
course, considering her background. Also resentment, although she had earned a grudging
respect when she broke the hard cases.

Lifting her naked body, she sat upright on the bed,
determined to gather her wits and attain some degree of professionalism. She
could hear his breathing at the other end of the line.

"Where?"

"Woodland Hills. Just off Rock Creek. Yesterday they
were bulldozing for a swimming pool. Apparently the rain did the rest."

The chill on her naked skin revived her somewhat.

"How much time?"

"Pick you up in ten," Cates said with a hint of a
smile in his voice.

"Make it fifteen," she said.

"I'll split the difference," he said as she
slammed the receiver into its carriage. She padded across the room into the
shower and turned on the cold taps, screaming herself into alertness.

One thing she could say about the eggplant, he got his
priorities right. A homicide happening in certain neighborhoods like Georgetown, Woodland Hills, Cleveland Park and upper Massachusetts and Connecticut Avenues
to the District line—the hallowed Northwest quadrant—put the ball in her
personal court. Parts of Capitol Hill were on a par and certain pockets
elsewhere as well. Everyone knew exactly where. It was a class and money thing,
well beyond race. In D.C. this was where, as he put it, the "powah
resahded." And, as everyone knew, the "powah" must be served.

THE RAIN had continued through the night and looked certain
to be one of those long, soaking spring rains that cast a different tone of
light on the city, putting everything, from the wedding-cake buildings and
monuments to the people themselves, into sharper definition.

She watched the windshield wipers make little progress
against the slanting rain as Cates drove through Rock Creek Park, respecting her need for silence. The normally benign creek was churning white water
beside them as Cates hurried the car to the Woodland Hills area, where the
wooded backyards of the western line of large homes backed up to the park.

They spotted the site by the police cars parked along the
shoulder of the road and the uniforms poking around in the wet tree-studded
land that dipped sharply upward toward the rears of the houses.

They got boots and slickers from the trunk of the car and,
getting handholds on stubborn brush, maneuvered their way up the slope to a
plateau carved out of the hillside. Yards away loomed a large house, three
stories high from the rear, with a wide stone terrace edged with a gracefully
winding stone balustrade. Obviously the owners planned a large pool and deck. A
bulldozer stood idle at the bottom of the muddy hole that would one day be the
pool.

Flannagan's technical boys were already on the job, but all
that seemed called for was to bag the bones and check the area for related
artifacts. Large floodlights had been set up to enhance the rain-shrouded grey
light. A police photographer snapped a series of photographs showing the bones,
which were still intact.

"It's all here, the skeletal remains," Flannagan
said. Fiona could see them clearly visible in the strong light, which also
defined the heavy rain. "Can't be sure of the sex," he said, squinting
upward and winking, his usual prelude to some gross joke. "Not without
skin around it."

"Or how long it's been there," Fiona muttered,
ignoring his remark. She was standing at the edge of the excavation and looking
downward at the skeleton. "Bag some earth around it as well," she
told him.

Cates jumped from the edge of the excavation to the
bulldozer then moved toward the far wall of earth where the skeleton was
lodged.

The body looked to be buried at the furthest end of the lot
about four feet deep, and the area around it now formed a shelf about halfway
down the excavation. Apparently the men digging the hole had used shovels to
unearth the full length of the skeleton after it had been uncovered by the
action of the bulldozer.

"Get it to forensic," Fiona said. "At least
we'll have the sex. I hope they can tell how long it's been there."

Cates, standing at the bottom of the muddy excavation,
inspected the bones from stem to stern. She watched him move suddenly, his hand
reaching out. Then he called up to the photographer.

"Get down here and get this," he said, rain
splashing about his head. His boots were three feet deep in water and mud.

"What is it?" Fiona asked.

The police photographer, using the bulldozer as a bridge,
scrambled down and, following Cates' finger, took his pictures. Then Cates
fiddled with one of the bones and with his pencil lifted an object and put it
in a plastic bag. Fiona waited for his answer.

"A slave bracelet," he shouted up at her, holding
the plastic bag to the light. "Name of..." He squinted at it.
"Looks like Mabel."

Cates scampered up the bulldozer again and jumped to where
Fiona was standing along the edge of the excavation. He showed her the plastic
bag.

"Very narrow. Looks like gold," Fiona said, her
mind finally ratcheting forward, concocting theories. Her head had cleared. She
was working. All other considerations vanished.

"Nothing else visible," Cates said.

The kind of bracelet suggested a younger woman. One riddle
quickly solved. She couldn't quite make out the engraving in the poor light.

The men began to bag the skeleton with great care and Fiona
and Cates wandered to the terrace, where an older couple watched the
proceedings. Both wore matching red flannel bathrobes, which gave the illusion
that they were twins. Actually they were a married couple named Parker. He was
ruddy with cherub cheeks and bushy grey eyebrows. She was a washed-out bleached
blonde, and the gloomy greyish light was not kind to her wrinkles. They both
looked angry, as if the messenger was somehow the cause of this dilemma.

"It does take the enthusiasm out of the project,"
Mrs. Parker said. Mr. Parker shook his head and sighed in agreement. He seemed
to be muttering under his breath.

"How long have you been living here?" Fiona
asked.

"Three years."

"Probably before your time," Fiona said, asking,
"Remember who owned the house before you?"

"Matter of fact I do. Fella named Prescott. Worked for
Cap Weinberger. Assistant Secretary of Defense I think he was, an early Reagan
appointee."

"About 1980 then."

"Might have been second wave, maybe '83."

"And before that?" Cates asked.

"How the hell should I know? We were out of the
country. I was Ambassador to Kenya. Democrat. Carter appointee." He hadn't
cracked a smile. "This country's changed, I tell you. Bodies in the
backyard. Got any idea who it was?"

"You know a Mabel?" Fiona asked. Parker looked at
his wife, whose wrinkles seemed to have multiplied in the harsh light.

"Soft and able," Parker said with an air of
disgust. "Goddamned house cost me two mil."

"Gives me the creeps now," the woman shivered.
"How can I ever go into the pool now? How awful. How absolutely
awful."

Fiona, who had been taking notes, snapped her notebook
shut. She could see their point. She started back toward the excavation and the
way they had come.

"What do we do now?" Mrs. Parker called after
her.

Fiona turned.

"Build the pool," she snapped. "And call us
if you find any more bodies."