Who Killed Tiffany Jones? (9 page)

“Did you get a call from Klaus Svrenson?” Hamlin whispered.

“Yes, I did,” Kwabena said, “and I see that he called you also.” Suddenly a look of grave concern swept across his face. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, from what I understand from other sources, some internal house cleaning became necessary. Klaus, of course, was incensed by the death of his wife. Still, business is business,” Hamlin said, glancing back toward his own table. “But I’m sure the matter has been cleared up with the incidents in Amsterdam and Dallas.”

“I hope you’re right. That responsibility, of course, lies with your colleagues in Europe and the States. In Freetown, betrayal or bungling 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 58

58

W H O K I L L E D T I F FA N Y J O N E S ?

resulting from greed is not tolerated. The situation would have been quickly dispatched. As it is, I’ve had some explaining to do,” Kwabena said. “It would be unfortunate if I’m forced to turn elsewhere to assure the continuation of this arrangement.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Good, but let’s talk about it at another time. This is hardly the place to discuss . . . business,” Kwabena said. Hamlin returned to his table.

Dave Hamlin rose and held the chair for Spivey when she returned from the ladies’ room with the two other women.

“You’re so sweet,” she said.

“My pleasure,” he said as the other two men stood up to seat their wives.

During dinner, Hamlin was generally unaware of anything in the restaurant except the delicious food on his plate and the equally delicious Christine Spivey, who occasionally rubbed her leg against his and smiled as she devoured the grilled catfish and black-eyed peas that she had ordered. He chatted with his dinner guests, occasionally shot a glance at Kwabena to see what he was up to, and, from time to time, smiled lecherously at Spivey. He also took note of the Hispanic man wearing sneakers and a running suit who paused as he passed their table. Hamlin had noticed him at the bar earlier when he sat with an Italian or Hispanic woman who was absolutely gorgeous.

“How did they let someone in a place like this with sneakers on?”

He nodded toward the guy’s feet.

“Those aren’t just sneakers,” Spivey said. “They’re Kobe Adidas, darling, one hundred and fifty dollars, and the Men’s Basketball Elevation Suit is one hundred and twenty-five.”

“For a jump suit?” Durham asked as he swallowed his broccoli without chewing it. They all laughed, and Hamlin turned back to what was left of his meal.

During dessert and coffee, the three politicians talked about various 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 59

“ M a v i s K a y e ”

59

concerns of the Republican Party. It was after eleven o’clock when Hamlin picked up the check and they left the restaurant. Outside, after the senator, the congressman, and their wives had gone, Hamlin leaned over and whispered into Spivey’s ear. “Why, Tater,” she gushed coyly, before she stepped forward and kissed him. He led her to his blue Lexus LS400.

Hamlin rubbed Spivey’s butter-colored knee as they drove up Con-necticut Avenue, with its large, stately red-brick homes. When they turned onto Nebraska Avenue and headed toward Military Road, he was imagining an evening of pleasure.

Spivey moved closer and rested her head on his shoulder as they cruised through the darkened streets. She was perfectly willing to spend the evening with Hamlin if that’s what it took to establish herself as a confidant, someone who could influence him and the way he voted. Besides, although he sometimes played the fool, Hamlin was fast becoming an influential representative. And nothing attracted Spivey more than power.

This is what it’s all about, Hamlin thought to himself. During his campaign, he had imagined what it would be like to really enjoy the spoils of American political life. And since he’d been in office, he’d taken full advantage of the situation. He was already amassing enough

“contributions” and future “campaign funds” to ensure his reelection in five years. He laughed to himself, thinking about the diamond deal.

It was sweet. And after that the sky was the limit. Why not run for president? If Jesse Jackson could do it, why not he. Even the Reverend Al Sharpton had announced that he was considering running for the White House. “You know this idea that black folk got that white folk won’t elect a black person president is absolutely wrong,” he said aloud.

“I agree, I agree,” Spivey said. She smiled at him, pointing out directions as he drove.

“Things are changing,” he said. “They appointed Clarence 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 60

60

W H O K I L L E D T I F FA N Y J O N E S ?

Thomas to the Supreme Court, didn’t they? Why not a black chief of state? I know I’m smart enough to be president.”

“You got my vote,” Spivey said, and kissed him gently on the cheek.

“You know I won my seat in Congress with sixty-four percent of the white vote,” he said. “And that was despite the opposition of all the hate groups and militia groups in Idaho. Every time one of those suckers spoke out against me, I gained another few points in the polls.”

“How’d you do with black voters?” Spivey asked, indicating that he should take the next turn onto the Rock Creek Parkway.

“Slightly better, actually, around seventy-two percent. You don’t have to sell out your people to get white votes,” he said defensively.

“This is what the Twin Falls newspaper had to say about me. I know it by heart. ‘Dave Hamlin parts company with black voters on many key civil rights issues but he wins black votes because of the force and sincerity of his convictions and genuine down-home charm.’ The edito-rial went on to praise my ‘courageous, hard-nose approach to affirmative action’ and ended by saying that ‘black voters realize that Dave Hamlin represents a forward-looking approach to racial issues, not one that whines over our society’s past transgressions. Mr. Hamlin sees blacks as full-fledged Americans, not as poor sisters demanding reparations. His fresh, progressive ideas will be embraced by most black voters, and Mr. Hamlin should have a bright future as our representative in Washington.’ ” Hamlin laughed, “They were right on the money.”

“That’s interesting,” Spivey said. She did not agree, but there was nothing to be gained by saying so.

“I’ll be a civil rights pioneer in a lot of ways. Black people have always opened things up for other groups who suffer discrimination.

Just think, my wife would be the first Native American First Lady!” He forced a laugh, thinking that Spivey might not be aware of his wife back in Idaho. But, in fact, she knew almost everything about him. She had read all the research before she met him.

16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 61

“ M a v i s K a y e ”

61

“What do you really think of the bill in the House?” Spivey asked, changing the subject as the car moved through the darkened park’s winding roadway. She cuddled closer to him and squeezed his arm.

“We’ll talk that over. There are a lot of ins and outs,” he said as he leaned down and kissed her earlobe. Hamlin was avoiding the question because he had actually intended to press for nearly all the changes in the diamond bill that Spivey had suggested before he met her. Now his mind was on other matters. He let his hand slip back down to her knee.

“What’s your long-range strategy?” she asked, undistracted by his caresses.

“There’s plenty of time to talk about that,” he said.

“Oh, wait! My place is just up ahead. Slow down.”

When she pointed to a townhouse, Hamlin turned off the headlights and stopped the car about twenty yards away.

“Look, why don’t you get out here and walk the rest of the way,” he said nervously. “With my marital situation and all, I don’t think it’s wise that we go in together—too many politicians caught with their keys in the wrong locks lately.”

“You’re a cautious one, aren’t you? Okay, I’ll wait for you inside.”

“Give me ten minutes,” he said.

Hamlin watched as Spivey left the car and walked to the door.

When she was safely inside, he moved back about ten more yards so that the car was partially concealed by the foliage of an overhanging tree. He looked at his Rolex, then began tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, anticipating a night of delightful discoveries.

He didn’t notice the Ford Expedition, which had stopped some ten yards behind him, because its occupants had also turned off the headlights. Although he was surprised, he wasn’t shocked when an attractive young woman with a distressed look on her face tapped on his window. It was only after rolling down the window that he realized she was the same gorgeous creature who had been sitting at the bar in 16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 62

62

W H O K I L L E D T I F FA N Y J O N E S ?

Georgia Brown’s with the man in the jogging suit. By then it was too late. Before he could react, the barrel of a revolver slammed against his forehead.

Christine Spivey sat on the sectional divan in her living room, sipping a glass of Taittinger Grand Cru Brut 1998. She had quickly changed into a slinky silk nightgown and dimmed the lights when she came inside. Now the voice of Luther Vandross crooned softly from her sound system. There was still more information that she wanted to get from Hamlin, and this, she thought, was the perfect setting to open him up—not only about his vote on the diamond legislation but also about how he, a freshman congressman, had risen so quickly. After what she thought must have been ten minutes, she stared at the antique clock on the mantle and realized it had been twelve minutes.

She walked to the window, pulled the curtains aside, and looked out.

Hamlin’s Lexus was nowhere in sight. Assuming he had driven around the block, she sat back down and lit a cigarette. Five minutes later, she went to the window and looked again. There was still no sign of Hamlin or his car. She pulled a raincoat over her nightgown and walked to the curb but still didn’t see the car.

Exasperated, she returned to the couch. This didn’t make sense. He had been eager and raring to go. For the next twenty minutes, Spivey kept returning to the window expecting to see Hamlin’s blue Lexus out front. Finally, after more than a half hour, she turned off the music and lights, and angrily stomped up to her bedroom. That son of a bitch, she thought. Nobody stands me up. Lying in bed, she consoled herself by planning revenge on Hamlin in the future. Her real worry was how she would explain this to her boss the next day.

That problem was solved at 7:15 A.M. the next day when she turned on the Today Show and heard Katie Couric interviewing one of the congressman’s colleagues. Dave “Tater” Hamlin had been killed when his car went out of control and plunged into Rock Creek. He had not been wearing a seat belt and apparently had been drinking heavily.

16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 63

“ M a v i s K a y e ”

63

“This is a grave loss for the Congress and the country,” Representative John Durham intoned. “The entire nation is in mourning.”

Washington was shocked.

Christine Spivey gasped and nearly spilled a brimming cup of hot coffee onto her lap before grabbing the remote and switching to CNN.

16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 64

16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 65

,

<

<

,

SIX

Paris/New York—Tuesday–Thursday, July 24–26

Re n e e Rot h ch i l d
sat at the desk in her study and stared at the obituary page of Le Monde in disbelief. Although the headline was written in French, she read it without a problem. She had lived in Paris for the past twenty years and considered herself European; as well as her native English, she spoke fluent French, Italian, German, and Spanish.

But on this day, as she read the paper, she wished that she had never learned to read French at all. She wished that she had never stepped off the airplane into the balmy Parisian air and a new life twenty years ago. If she hadn’t, she would never have met Lester Bennett, the sax player from her hometown in Louisiana who’d been, without a doubt, the love of her life. She wouldn’t be reading about his death, wedged between the weather report and a feature on the dedication of a new statue near the rue Vicomte.

16470_ch01.qxd 7/12/02 4:33 PM Page 66

66

W H O K I L L E D T I F FA N Y J O N E S ?

Renee scanned the article four times, and still it didn’t make sense. Lester Bennett, the renowned jazz musician, had been discovered dead in his exclusive apartment house on the rue du Petit-Pont, an apparent suicide by hanging. An investigation was under way, although police inspectors found no evidence of foul play. Preliminary findings indicated that he was intoxicated and officials suspect that he was despondent over his stalled career. The body would be turned over to a representative of the family who was flying in from the United States. A host of small memorial services were being planned for later dates.

Lester was dead, and Renee couldn’t avoid the thought that she was at least indirectly implicated in his passing. Klaus Svrenson had warned her that some problems had arisen, but neither she nor Lester thought it would come to this. She had allowed herself to get caught up in a whirlpool of deception and easy money, and, now, she couldn’t see a way out.

For a moment, Renee let her mind drift back to the past—the long evening strolls she and Lester took along the Seine and how he used to play delicate notes on his sax as they sat in the perfumed garden of the magnificent basilica of St-Germain-le-Doré with its massive marble columns and golden mosaics. It was one of Lester’s favorite places in the world because, more than 1,500 years ago, there was a temple dedicated to the goddess Isis located on that very spot. No matter where they traveled, Lester always brought Renee back to the gardens of the Doré because he said that Nubian goddesses should try to keep company together as often as possible.