"Not in the last few months." He paused.
"You saw her. That was the only thing she'd have no trouble finding."
"She was hardly appealing when we got to her,"
Cates said, with what seemed like unnecessary malice.
"You should have seen her when I did," he said,
ignoring the barb. For the first time since they had arrived his expression
softened. "She was wonderful."
"Without guile," Fiona pressed. Something odd
seemed embedded in the phrase and she detected a slight stiffening as he heard
it thrown back at him.
"Yeah," he mumbled. "Nobody can survive in
this town without that. No one."
"We couldn't find any names in her apartment. Nothing.
Everything in its proper place." Fiona looked around his apartment.
"Not like this. She was a fanatic about white and being neat."
"Yeah."
"How did she support it? The apartment?"
"Don't ask me."
"Somebody paid three month's rent up front in
cash," Fiona said. "She didn't make that kind of money."
"So?"
"How could she have done that on a take-home salary of
$800 a month?" Fiona asked, aware of her pressure. Something about the man
was aggravating. Had they any business being here, wasting the taxpayer's
money?
"What are you trying to say?" His eyes moved
nervously between her and Cates. Without answering, she pressed on, unable to
stop herself.
"All I want is the truth." The statement was
premature, unprofessional.
"About what?" Martin snapped. She caught Cates's
glare of caution but decided to ignore it.
"You know what."
Martin looked at Cates.
"She's mad as a hatter. Are you accusing me of
throwing her over the bridge, murdering her?"
The word hung in the air like an unbearable stench. She
knew she was going too far.
"You brought her to D.C. Why?"
"That's my business," he said, on the edge of
exasperation. "I don't have to take this shit. You're harassing me."
He stood up, then sat down again. "I adored her. You're profaning our
relationship."
"Why did you split up?"
"That's also my business."
"I think you're full of crap," Fiona said
vehemently. She was pushing it now, skirting caution. It was, she knew,
professionally dangerous. Verging on harassment.
"You're insulting her memory," he said sharply.
"She was my friend. We were lovers once. If that's a crime, then you can
arrest half of this town."
"Show him the pin," Fiona ordered. Cates
hesitated. She could see he was very unhappy with her behavior. Reluctantly, Cates
drew the pin from his pocket and gave it to her. Holding it up, she glared at
him.
"Ever see this?"
Martin looked at it curiously, while she studied his
reaction.
"No." Was something awry in his expression?
"General's insignia. Four stars. Tell him where you
found it, Cates."
Cates appeared to force his concentration as he explained
where he'd found it.
"So?"
"Means nothing to you?"
"I'm no general."
He got up and turned away. When he faced her again, his
eyes were moist and his Adam's apple was sliding up and down in his throat.
"Get the hell out of here," he said, his lips
trembling.
She pointed a finger in front of his nose. "I'm going
to watch you, Martin," she warned, seeing Clint's face. This was no damn
interrogation, she realized. She'd been conducting an inquisition. But against
whom?
"Just get out," Martin said.
She moved toward the door and Cates followed her.
Something about the man gnawed at her. Was it because he
reminded her of Clint? It annoyed her to connect them.
"You were rough on him," Cates said cautiously
when they were in the car again.
"On myself," she mumbled, ashamed. Why couldn't
Dorothy leave her alone.
Jason had always been contemptuous of the Washington social
scene, an endless round of parties faithfully reported in the newspapers and
recorded by the Capital's social chronicle, the
Washington Dossier
.
Like most Washington media types, he loudly proclaimed the
exercise an orgy of back-scratching and hors d'oeuvre munching; nothing more
than a chance to dress up and exchange trivia. When not officially invited for
press coverage, media people publicly criticized these events, as if the act of
putting them down was, in itself, a badge of superiority. Privately, they
thirsted for invitations, knowing that they provided easy social access to
people who wielded power. For that reason, Jason knew that the party circuit
would be the principal channel of accessibility to the types he wanted to cast
in his sexual extravaganza.
The cocktail and buffet arena was a cornucopia of potential
victims. What good was fame or success if you couldn't receive the plaudits of
your peers? Egos required stroking. Power as a rule was so splintered that even
those who exercised it needed the validation of their fellows to appreciate the
joys of having a piece of it.
Since he was not on any favored lists, he had to pursue a
program of research that would give him the access he needed. It was easier
than he'd imagined. Meeting places were everywhere, in the hotels, the private
and government office buildings, the restaurants, association headquarters and,
of course, the private homes of Washington's social elite whose status was
determined by who attended their receptions and dinner parties. Celebrities
gloried in being with each other, and because these events were a spotlight for
media coverage they came; and because they came, others came. And what good was
being a celebrity if there wasn't a claque of inferiors present to further
insure their superiority?
Crashing these parties, Jason discovered, was simple.
Except when the President or vice-president attended and all guests had to be
carefully screened, it was considered bad form to make a fuss about
invitations. At some events, guests did present their invitations, but most of
these looked alike. Usually, those charged with responsibility at the door
merely nodded appropriately-dressed guests through without recourse to a minute
inspection of the invitations.
If a sit-down dinner was planned, guests were assigned
places with name cards alphabetized and assembled on long tables for easy
access. But that didn't stop anyone who looked the part from attending the
obligatory cocktail mixer before the dinner, which was, for many, the main
event. Once seated, there would be obvious limitations to social contact.
Still there were risks. Dorothy would inevitably attract
attention, no matter how demurely she dressed. Flirtations did not go
unnoticed, especially by the wives of important men. And the camera lens,
despite all caution, was ubiquitous. An attractive woman was a photographic
magnet. Notoriety and media exposure could strike a death knell to his plan.
For his chosen victims, Dorothy had to be the forbidden fruit, reasonably
anonymous, absolutely discreet. Excessive risk in public would scare them off,
however appealing the honeypot.
He had already calculated that Dorothy's ingenuousness
would pass for poise and her patrician good looks for sophistication. A
beautiful, well-groomed woman did not need intellectual assets in such a social
setting. Besides, Dorothy was not awed by any man, regardless of his title or
so-called power. They were all merely men to her. In these terms, she had all
the assets she needed to approach them. A gamble, yes, but one that he knew he
had to take.
He pursued his investigation with scientific zeal,
determined to find the one event that might net a number of candidates in one
swoop. To help finance the operation and provide her with a credible
occupation, he encouraged Dorothy to get a job. She quickly found one in the
makeup department of one of Washington's fanciest stores, a branch of Saks Fifth Avenue.
Using her discount at the store, he bought her a
spectacular evening gown. She looked good in every one she'd tried on, but he
knew she truly wanted the one that was all white, that clung to her hips and
offered just the right promise of her cleavage. It cost him twelve hundred
dollars and got him further behind on his support payments. He bought himself a
tuxedo at a second-hand clothing store.
"Nobody has ever been this good to me."
They lay in his rumpled double bed. She had thanked him in
the only way she knew.
"You're good to me, too, baby."
"I am?"
She was beyond mere docility, she was loyal and obedient to
a fault.
"Will you always take care of me, Jason?" It was,
for her, at the root of everything.
"Of course."
"And never leave me?"
"Never."
"Just be good to me, Jason."
"Haven't I been?"
"You've been great."
"You just trust me, baby," he told her.
"Whatever I do is for the both of us."
"Of course I trust you, Jason."
She embraced him again.
"You're my man," she said. Had he detected a bit
of uncertainty?
"You're sure you don't mind?"
She looked at him, puzzled at first, then her face
brightened.
"If it's important to you, Jason."
He wondered about that look. He would have to watch her
very carefully.
Arthur Fellows had become a weekly event, and their
debriefings had already filled a number of cassettes.
"He thinks the President doesn't like him." She
was a slow learner, but once she found the track, she chugged along in a straight
line.
"He told you that?"
"He says that somebody is bad-mouthing him."
"Who?"
"I can't remember."
"It's important, baby."
"I'll try to listen harder next time."
Paranoia in the precincts of power was a common Washington ailment. It added spice to any story.
"You did fine, baby," he assured her whenever a
note of despondency crept into her voice. Reassurance was always her best
medicine.
A benefit for the National Symphony, to be thrown at the
Corcoran Gallery of Art, provided what he considered his best shot. The guest
list, easily obtainable, included some of Washington's most prominent people,
among whom were some likely candidates for his purposes. The inevitable
cocktail hour would provide the perfect opportunity to mingle. To simplify any
potential follow-up, he had her name and the telephone number of the apartment
printed on little cards.
Dorothy looked spectacular in her white evening gown. She
had taken great care with her makeup, adding a few extra touches she'd learned
at her job.
"You're beautiful," he said.
"You really think so, Jason?"
"Of course, baby."
He was, he knew, betting on the instinctive egomania of men
who wielded power, the Achilles heel that breached their invulnerability.
Because they lived exclusively within their own exalted orbit, these men knew
the aphrodisia inspired by their aura, sensed its special attraction to women.
The few exceptions were those who were absorbed so deeply in power's pursuits
that all sexuality was blunted.
At the other extreme were those who considered themselves
objects of phallic pride, encouraging the image, sometimes overtly, accepting
any sexual favors offered if the circumstances were reasonably safe. Still
others covertly lusted, quietly hiding behind their facades of propriety,
anxiously waiting for some outside force to answer their need.
Perhaps, he thought, he was exaggerating Dorothy's own
power to touch the chord of male sexuality. It would not do for her to seem
overly aggressive. Nor was it in her character. She was guileless and whatever
social poise she had was more apparent in her carriage and passivity; in the
innocent arrangement of her near perfect features and the wonderful roundness
of her body, shown to marvelous advantage in her new clothes.
Was it naive to think he could point her like a missile and
find an instant mark? No! But Dorothy, he was dead certain, was double-barreled
buckshot. If there were a likely target within shooting distance, a piece of
shot would find its victim.
"I'll point out the people I want you to talk with."
"But what will I say to them?"
"Tell them," he said, "that you are the
goddess of the forbidden fruit, one bite of which will send them soaring to a
sublime paradise."
Because he was nervous, he had overly fortified himself
with Scotch. His giddy facetiousness confused her and he forced his
seriousness.
"Tell them how much you admire them. Tell them how
handsome and wonderful they are and how you've wanted to meet them. Offer them
the unspoken promise."
"The what?"
"Dammit. Just be yourself. If there's no sexual energy
between you, forget it. They just have to respond to the calibration. Their own
egoism will do the rest. If you see a connection, hand them the card. It's a
very tangible message."
"Wouldn't it be easier if you just made the
arrangements? This way seems so ... so unnatural."
"You trying to make a pimp out of me?" he
snapped, immediately feeling the flush of his own stupidity. "What I meant
was..." She hadn't really grasped the full implication of his outburst.
"...you really don't need any help from me." Even as he spoke the
words he felt an unexpected pang of jealousy.
They walked into the large main gallery without incident.
Eyes turned as they spotted Dorothy, easily the most attractive woman in the
room. They moved to one of the many bars. He ordered her a Scotch and water.
"But I want a beer," she protested.
"You don't drink beer here."
"You don't?"
Standing in a corner, sipping their drinks, he surveyed the
crowd. He'd made a list of potential targets, about twenty-five newsworthy gentlemen
of varying degrees of importance. Not far from them, he spotted Senator Charles
Hurley, a tall well-nourished jovial fellow, recently elected majority leader
of the Senate.
"Him," Jason told her. "The big fellow with
the pink face."
Watching her, he waited until she registered recognition.
"He's cute," she said.
They moved over to where a knot of people surrounded the
senator, who was telling a story. As he finished, they all laughed politely. He
prodded Dorothy to move forward.
He saw the senator's peacock response, a stiffening of
shoulders, a sucking in of gut, a little flush on his cheeks that hadn't been
there before.
The tight circle around him dwindled, and Dorothy was left
alone with him for a moment.
A tall woman beside him stirred, poised for protection. She
was obviously the senator's wife or companion.
"I'm Jason Martin," he said pleasantly,
deflecting her. "
Washington
Post
." He knew such an
identification had an intimidating effect.
"I'm Ann Chase, the senator's AA." She seemed
uncomfortable. "Mrs. Hurley is out of town. Got to be on call for these
things." Her air of defensiveness was embarrassingly transparent.
"Know what you mean," he said, noting
peripherally that Dorothy had engaged the senator. She was smiling, listening,
occasionally nodding as the senator postured. It was a special talent, he knew.
She was a natural magnet, and, best of all, she wasn't acting. Everybody's
dream girl.
He soon noted that the senator's AA was more interested in
the senator's conversation than in her own with Jason, and she managed to shoot
him a stony glance when he momentarily looked away. The senator's eyes became
furtive and he shifted his weight uncomfortably. As she had been instructed,
Dorothy palmed him the card which he put into his jacket pocket.
"He was very funny," Dorothy said when they had
moved away.
"You were wonderful," Jason said, embracing her
shoulder.
"This is fun, Jason."
He spotted other possibilities, pointing them out.
"Sprinkle your rosebuds," he said. He was elated.
She had met the challenge. As they moved about, the possibilities seemed
endless. It was like a hunting expedition.
At one point he lost her in the crowd. It was an odd
sensation that inexplicably frightened him. Suddenly she seemed beyond his
control, on her own. The idea twisted his stomach into knots. He stood at the
bar and ordered a double Scotch, suddenly feeling out of place and
uncomfortable. He was confronted, too, with a sense of inadequacy in himself he
did not wish to face. Was he using her to compensate for all his lifetime
failures and frustrations? He had never been able to mix, to make human contact
without anguish, a quality that he felt doomed him forever to loneliness and
disconnection. Perhaps he could only satisfy his craving for human contact by manipulating
others. As his gaze drifted through the crowd, he imagined he saw kindred
souls, standing aloof, acting out the charade of participation, desperately
wanting to be somewhere else where the confrontation with themselves would be
less painful. Where was she? he fumed. He had not given her permission to
desert him. Not yet. Not now.
Fifteen minutes passed before he spotted her gliding toward
him, head high, wearing a smile like sunshine.
"You scared me, baby. I thought I'd lost you."
"Lost me? I was doing what you told me to."
"I didn't tell you to get carried away," he said,
his irritation and frustration suddenly surfacing.
"What's wrong?" she pleaded, the smile fading.
"We have to be selective. You can't just flirt with
anybody." He moved to the bar where he ordered another double Scotch.
"But I thought..." She didn't finish the
sentence, but instead stood near him, pouting.
How could she understand, he thought. He could not control
his irritation.