Authors: Ralph Reed
Tags: #Fiction, #Christian, #Religious, #Political, #General
Ballots and Blood
Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Reed
All rights reserved.
Printed in the United States of America
978-1-4336-6925-5
Published by B&H Publishing Group,
Nashville, Tennessee
Dewey Decimal Classification: F
Subject Heading: MYSTERY FICTION \ POLITICAL CORRUPTIONâFICTION \ WASHINGTON (DC)âFICTION
Publisher's Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Author is represented by the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920, www.alivecommunications.com.
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 ⢠15 14 13 12 11
To Christopher
Contents
1
A
n unmarked blue Ford Crown Victoria carrying a District of Columbia police detective pulled up in front of a pre-World War II, three-story redbrick townhouse in the upscale Georgetown section of Washington, DC. The detective slid out of the car, the summer heat hitting him like a furnace blast, the air heavy and almost choking. DC was like a paved swamp in the summertime, he thought. As he stepped to the curb, he glanced in either direction to survey the street for any suspicious persons (an instinctive response honed over twenty-two years of police work) and nodded at the patrolman standing on the sidewalk. He opened the iron gate to the small garden out front and descended to the basement.
Inside, his eyes adjusted to the semidarkness. A second patrolman stood in what appeared to be a reception area-living room, its floor covered with a bland industrial carpet.
“What do ya got?” asked the detective, dispensing with formalities.
“White male, approximately sixty,” said the patrolman. “Based on the condition of the body, I'd say he's been dead for a while.”
The detective nodded. “Show me.”
The officer led him to a door and a second set of stairs, which creaked as they descended. A pungent smell filled their nostrils, a noxious mixture of sweat, blood, leather, and death. A fly buzzed. When they reached the bottom, the detective surveyed the room. An empty cage sat in the corner, a wooden table with leather straps at the ends, a wall rack with whips hanging from itâthe equipment of a faux-torture chamber.
“It's a dungeon,” said the officer.
“So I see,” said the detective. He stooped and studied the body. The man's flesh was pale with a gray pallor, soft and cool to the touch. His hands and feet were bound with leather restraints. He wore a black leather mask. Had the victim accidentally suffocated? Reddish-purple contusions flecked his shoulders, back, and buttocks. The lower limbs were discolored, indicating a settling of blood. The victim had been dead for hours.
“What do you think? A whip, maybe?” asked the detective, pointing to the bruises.
“Looks like it,” said the officer. “There's plenty of 'em. And riding crops. I didn't notice anything missing.”
“We'll have to wait for the autopsy to find out how he died. I doubt a whip was the murder weapon. We'll get prints. That'll lead to whoever worked here. My hunch is there will be plenty of outstandings and priors,” said the detective. “Find out who owns the building.”
“Roger that, sir.”
The detective stared at the body. “Any ID on this guy?”
“His clothes are in the changing room,” replied the officer, pointing to the corner of the basement.
The detective walked to changing room. “Probably a lobbyist or corporate puke. Or a traveling businessman looking for a good time on the road.”
“He got more than he bargained for,” said the officer.
A crisp navy blue suit hung on a hook in front of a mirror, a red-and-blue striped tie draped over the hanger. A blue shirt in dry-cleaning plastic hung on a second hook. A pair of boxer shorts, meticulously folded, rested on the chair, navy blue socks lying across a pair of black wingtips. The detective patted the suit, feeling a bulge in the pants. He reached in and pulled out a wallet. Opening it, he found a Florida driver's license. Reading the name, he let out an expletive.
“What?” asked the officer.
“Well, now we have what we refer to as a situation.” He reached into another suit pocket and pulled out some business cards, flipping through them, then closed the wallet and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He dialed a number, pausing while awaiting an answer, his gaze leveled at the officer. “I need the chief.”
The chief of detectives came on the line. “What's so important that you're interrupting me?”
“I've got a white male, sixty-two, bound and gagged in a Georgetown apartment retrofitted as a torture chamber. Somebody beat him up pretty bad. It appears he either choked to death or had a heart attack during the act,” said the detective. “I need a full crime scene unit stat. And I'm going to need a public affairs officer.”
“Why?”
“The body is Senator Perry Miller.”
“What? Are you absolutely sure?”
“Not exactly. His face is covered. But unless someone else is wearing his suit and carrying his driver's license, yeah, it's definitely Perry Miller.”
The chief of detectives sighed. “This is going to be a cluster.”
“Total.”
“Sit tight,” said the chief. “The CSU will be there in ten minutes. Secure the building. No one goes in or out until it's swept for prints. I mean no one. Pretty soon it'll be a police convention, with badges standing around with their thumbs up their noses and the media crawling everywhere. For now, I don't want a thread moved. Is that clear?”
“Done.”
“We might as well call the FBI. They're going to show up anyway. Give them all the cooperation they need, if only to protect us, if you get my drift.”
“Sadly, I do.”
“What's your location?”
“321 M Street, NW.”
“It's probably nothing beyond what it looks like. A guy was having a good time, things got out of control, next thing you know you've got a dead body.”
“Nelson Rockefeller, call your office.”
“Right. But you never know. And given the victim, we need to tread carefully. This is going to be on the front page of every newspaper in America by tomorrow morning.”
The detective hung up and turned to the patrolman. “Congratulations, officer. You just bought yourself a front row seat to a sex scandal.”
A BLACK LINCOLN TOWN CAR pulled up slowly to the back gate of the White House bearing Governor Kerry Cartwright of New Jersey. A uniformed guard scanned the driver's licenses of the driver, Cartwright, and a personal aide. He surveyed their faces to establish a visual ID.
“Good afternoon, Governor.”
“Good afternoon,” replied Cartwright, shooting the aide a knowing smile.
The guard waved the car through, the iron gates opening slowly with a creaking noise by remote control. The driver pulled into a spot just outside the West Wing with an orange cone placed in the center.
Jay Noble's assistant stood beneath the green awning of the entrance to the West Wing. She wore a smart blue skirt with a crisp white blouse, White House staff badge dangling conspicuously from her neck. As the car pulled up, she smiled officiously and greeted the governor.
“Governor, so glad you could come. Jay's with the president. He'll meet you in the mess shortly. He asked me to go ahead and take you to your table.” She accompanied Cartwright and his aide down the narrow stairwell to the White House mess, greeting the host and leading the way to a private room.
David Thomas, White House political director and manager of Bob Long's presidential campaign, sat at a chair, head down, eyes peering at his BlackBerry screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard.
“Governor!” he boomed a little too loudly when Cartwright entered, flashing a warm and expansive smile. “David Thomas, political director. Welcome.” He shook his hand vigorously.
Cartwright, a bowling ball of a man with stooped posture, loping gait, forty pounds of excess weight, and a look of permanent bemusement on his countenance (as if to say, “How did I get this far, this fast?”), gripped his hand tightly, their eyes locked. “Good to be here, David.” He turned to his aide. “You know Bill Spadea on my team.”
“Absolutely,” said Thomas, shaking Spadea's hand. “He's one of the best political operatives in America. Bill, your reputation precedes you.”
At that instant the door swung open and Jay breezed in, immediately changing the room's dynamics with his presence. Everyone wheeled to face him. “Is Thomas talking about himself again? I heard something about the best political operative in America.” Jay never resisted a chance to get a playful dig in on Thomas.
Cartwright let out a belly laugh while Thomas and Spadea eyed each other warily, chuckling nervously. They all took their chairs as Jay waved over a white-coated waiter, who took drink orders.
“The president says hello,” said Jay. “If you have time after lunch, we can swing by the Oval and see him before you leave.”
“Terrific,” said Cartwright a little too enthusiastically.
“Soâhow goes the Garden State?” asked Jay.
Cartwright nodded. “We finally got the budget done,” he said with the relaxed sigh of an accountant after tax day. “It was a beast. The Democrats fought me to the bitter end.”
Jay smiled knowingly. “We know the feeling, Governor.”
“The session turned into a game of chicken with the Speaker of the House and the teachers' unions, who have him wrapped around their finger. We won because I refused to give in to their demands. I pledged when I ran for governor I wouldn't raise taxes, and I've kept it. In fact, I've cut property taxes three times.”
“It's amazing,” said Jay.
“The pressâand especially the
New York Times
âis crucifying him,” said Spadea as he took a sip of Diet Coke. “But all it does is remind people he's a man of his word. The governor's job approval is 68 percent. That's the highest number he's ever had.”
“We know,” interjected Thomas. “Why do you think we're having lunch?”
Everyone laughed. The waiter reappeared with drinks and took everyone's order. Cartwright ordered a cup of chicken noodle soup, clear evidence he was back on a diet in anticipation of another campaign.
“So have you figured out how to handle Sal Stanley yet?” joked Cartwright after the waiter left the table.
Everyone laughed again.
“Actually, we have,” said Jay, leaning forward, his countenance radiating intensity. “We're gonna beat him.”
Cartwright was stunned. “You really think you can beat Stanley?”
“Like a drum,” said Jay.
“Nothing would make us happier,” said Spadea. “The guy's negatives are high and he's a polarizing figure. But he's got eighteen million bucks in the bank and has a gun to the head of every lobbyist in town. It's a shake-down operation. No one wants to cross him because they know he plays dirty.”