Authors: William Bernhardt
31
L
oving awoke to mixed sensations: his head felt like a rock—but a rock resting on a pillow. Not that the pillow made it throb any less. But it suggested an unusual degree of TLC from a mysterious back-alley brick attacker.
“Is Sleeping Beauty awake at last?” a soft, high-pitched voice asked.
Loving turned his head in the direction from which it came, but the movement hurt so much he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. By this time he had realized that his feet were cuffed to the posts of the bed on which he lay. The knowledge that he wasn’t going anywhere, combined with the knowledge that his head ached every time he moved it, left him with seriously diminished curiosity.
“Long as you’ve been out, you’d think I hit you with my baseball bat.”
Loving wondered if it really could have made much difference. The feminine voice was very appealing, friendly, with a trace of a Southern lilt. He would probably find it sexy if the possessor hadn’t recently beaten him into unconsciousness.
“Where am I?”
“In my room.” And a pretty shabby room, from what little Loving could see of it. Flimsy furniture, tacky wallpaper. Some kind of flophouse. Not even Motel 6 quality. “It’s not far from the poetry slam.”
“Why did you—”
He felt a fist suddenly grab the collar of his T-shirt and twist it around his throat. “Why were you looking for me?”
This time, he didn’t have to crane his neck. Trudy was hovering over him, just as she had been described. Long brunette hair, muscular figure, strong arms, which combined with the element of surprise had very much worked against him in the alleyway.
“You heard me, stalker boy. I want to know why you were looking for me.”
“I—” His first attempt to speak was not successful. His throat was filled with some filmy residue of unconsciousness, and his tongue was thick and unresponsive. “I was followin’ a lead.”
“Well now, isn’t that what they all say.” She had a way of looking at him that was positively…alluring. Loving didn’t usually go in for the bondage scene, and he didn’t think he’d been captive long enough to fall victim to the Stockholm syndrome, but there was something about this Trudy that was working for him in a big way.
Which only made it all the more difficult to talk. “I—I’m working for a man who’s working with Thaddeus Roush, that guy who’s up for the Supreme Court.”
“I know who Roush is. Don’t treat me as if I’m stupid just because I’m pretty.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“So what’s Roush got to do with me?”
“I think you know somethin’ about the woman who was killed at his press conference.”
“Do tell. And what makes you think that?”
“Got a tip from a man who tried to kill me.”
“And you considered that reliable?”
He shrugged. “Frankly, it was all I had to go on. Do you own a red Ford SUV?”
Her neck stiffened. “What if I do?”
He nodded. “Figured you did. Your car was spotted in the rear of the Roush garden that day. Ford SUV, ’01 or ’02. Didn’t appear on the list of cars owned by people known to be present. They went in more for expensive foreign cars and bulky camera vans.”
“Must be a million people who own SUVs like mine.”
“It was yours.”
“Uh-huh. So you figured I loaned my car to this poor murder victim?”
“I figured you gave her a lift. Since the car disappeared shortly thereafter and she was in no condition to drive. This other guy in our office—name of Jones—is very good with computers. He managed to hack into the database for the Maryland Turnpike Authority.”
“How’d you know I took the turnpike?”
“I didn’t for sure,” he smiled slightly—even that hurt—“until now. The police all assumed you headed back to the capital. But that wasn’t gettin’ ’em anywhere, so I decided to take a different approach. ’Sides, the turnpike has surveillance cameras.”
“It does?”
“It does. Several points down the stretch. You can’t get on or off without being spotted. Jones tapped into their video records—they’re all stored on hard drives for months—gauging the approximate time someone leavin’ the press conference might hit the turnpike. Only spotted one cute little gas guzzler like yours at what we estimated to be the time you made your getaway.”
Trudy tossed her hair back with a whip of her head. Loving felt his heart skip a beat. Totally a turn-on. “And those little cameras let you follow me all the way home to Georgetown?”
“Nah. Jones tried to enlarge the video image and get your license plate number, but it was too muddy. I figure you did something to the plate. I wasn’t able to connect the name Trudy to that car for certain. Until now.”
She tapped a long fingernail against her lips. The nail was painted bright red. “You been at this private-eye game long?”
“A fair piece. Why?”
“Well, I don’t mean to criticize, but you don’t seem very good at it.” She leaned in closer. “I think every friend I’ve got in the world—including some I haven’t seen since high school—has called in the past few days to tell me some big, beefy hunk of a guy was looking for me. If I had anything to hide, I would’ve disappeared a long time ago.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Is that supposed to prove you have nothing to hide?”
She leaned in even closer. “Or maybe I just wanted to see this big, beefy hunk of a guy for myself. And at the moment—I’m glad I did.”
It would take a stronger man than Loving for a statement like that to pass without making an impression. He knew it was unprofessional—the woman was not only a suspect, she had clubbed him over the head. But damn, she was hot.
“You’re…not…totally unappealing yourself,” Loving mumbled.
She ran a hand across his stubbled head. “I like you, Mr. Loving.”
“Just Loving.”
“Whatever. I like you. Even though I shouldn’t. But that’s the story of my life. I always fall for the bad boys.”
Loving tried to pull his head back into the case. “Would one of those boys by any chance use a .35-gauge sniper-scope rifle?”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“I’m talkin’ about some guys—professional guys, wiseguys—who have been tryin’ to take me out ever since I started lookin’ for you. They’ve come within a whisper of killin’ me twice now.”
“Oh, please. Paranoid much?”
“It’s true. You read the papers? Hear about the whack job who shot up the NorthPoint shopping mall a few days ago?”
“Yeah…”
“Well, it wasn’t a whack job. That was the cover story the cops put out. It was really two heavily armed, highly dangerous professionals. Tryin’ to kill me. Came damn close to succeedin’, too. And later, one of them told me they weren’t gonna stop. Not as long as I was lookin’ for you. Said to watch for danger in unexpected places.”
“What, you had a nice little chat with a man who was tryin’ to kill you?”
“Long story. Point is—evidently you know somethin’ someone else is willin’ to kill to make sure doesn’t get out.”
Trudy’s breathing became faster and deeper. “But that…doesn’t make any sense.”
“It does to someone. So what is it you know, Trudy?”
She was visibly shaken. “I don’t know anything.”
“Evidently you do.”
“I don’t!”
“You know who got killed at the Roush conference.”
“But I don’t—not really.”
“You must know her name.”
“She went by Victoria.”
“Victoria what?”
“She never told me.”
Loving propped himself on his elbows. This is the part of the interrogation when he would normally try to intimidate her with grim, threatening expressions, but that was hard to pull off when you were chained to a bed. “What are you tellin’ me? You just picked up a stranger and gave her a ride to her death?”
“Yes! I mean, no! I mean—”
“What do you mean?”
She took a deep breath. “I was doing a favor.”
“For a woman you’d never met.”
“No. For Renny.”
Finally they were getting somewhere. “And who is this Renny?”
Trudy sat on the edge of the bed, barely inches from Loving. He could feel his internal temperature rise at her nearness. Even as she was spilling her guts, and probably lying about half of it, he found himself liking everything about her—the way she moved, the way she talked. The worried expression on her face made him want to reach out and cradle her in his arms. For starters.
“Renny owns this club. Bar, I guess. Called Action. Kind of a hick place, but not really.”
“A faux hick place?”
“Exactly. Well, you don’t see so many of these joints on the East Coast. Renny is a very high-class guy, but he disguises it by catering to dislocated rednecks, kind of like—” She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to. “But it’s all a front. The peanut shells on the floor, the arm wrestling, all that. All for show. Renny is very…cultured.”
“ ’Zat a fact.”
“It’s true. He’s all refined. Civilized. Knows about philosophy and poets and stuff.”
“And I guess you’d go for that in a big way. Bein’ the yoga and poetry buff.”
“Hey, I do the best I can, okay? I didn’t get a fancy Ivy League education. Couldn’t afford it. I’m an autodidact.”
Loving’s eyes fairly bulged. “And you admit it to people? I mean, sure, everyone does it, but—”
She glared at him. “It means I’m self-educated. Taught myself. Broadened my horizons.”
“Oh.” He swallowed. “So you’re attracted to this Renny clown because he’s so educated?”
“Kind of, yeah. He’s a good business contact, you know? Kind of guy who can hook you up with whatever you need.” Loving wondered what exactly it was she needed. “So when he asked me to do a little favor for his gal Victoria…”
“You did it. Played chauffeur.” Loving sighed. He wished he could convince himself that Trudy was lying, but he didn’t think she was, and that wasn’t just because she was turning him on ninety miles a minute, either. He could see it in her eyes.
Trudy placed a finger on Loving’s expansive chest and slowly walked it toward his neck. “Am I in a lot of trouble?”
“Hard to say,” he replied, trying to ignore what she was doing to him, “since I don’t know what the heck is goin’ on. But offhand, I’d say yes. What’s this Renny into?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” Trudy’s hand crossed his neck and began gently massaging his ear.
“There has to be more to this than some redneck bar. No way Thaddeus Roush would be involved in a place like that.” Loving cleared his throat and tried to ignore the stroking of his temples. “There’s something going on, some major crime in here, somewhere. Is Renny using this bar as a front for drug smuggling?”
“I don’t think so. I know druggies, but I’ve never seen any at Renny’s.”
“Prostitution, maybe?”
“No way. Renny’s too classy. I mean, he’s got girls all over the place, but I don’t think they’re working girls. More like…sex slaves.”
Loving was curious what the difference was, but thought it might be dangerous just at the moment to engage Trudy in a discussion of anything relating to sex.
“There must be somethin’.” She was so close now he could feel her breath on his face. “Can you get me in to meet this Renny?”
“I can take you to the bar. But I can’t guarantee you’ll see him. He stays in the back rooms, and they’re pretty exclusive.”
“I’ll get in.”
“He has lots of security.”
“Crooks always do. I’ll get in if I have to flatten a platoon.”
“Is that your solution to everything? Rush in and bust some heads?”
“As I recall, you’re pretty good in the head-busting department yourself.”
She leaned in closer, inches from his face. “You probably liked it.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t.”
She grabbed his ear and twisted it, pulling his head toward hers. “I bet you like a woman who takes control.”
“Unlock those cuffs on my ankles and I’ll show you what I like, lady.”
“No, I think I prefer you like this. Completely under my control.”
“In your dreams.”
“You think you’re tough, don’t you?”
“Tough enough for you.”
She swung herself around, straddled him. “Are you as turned on as I am?”
“More.”
When they kissed, it was more like two torpedoes flinging themselves at each other. He pressed hard against her and she pressed hard back, sliding her body across his. He kissed her as if he were trying to penetrate her skull; she bit his lower lip till it bled.
“Oh my,” one of them groaned, and then the kissing resumed. Loving leaned up as best he could and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her tight. She took his T-shirt by the collar and tore it right down the center, ripping it off him, revealing his massive muscular chest. She shoved her face between his pecs and licked him, working her tongue up to his neck, then to the side of his face, and then they were kissing again, just as hard and powerfully as before.
“You’re incredible,” he said, pushing himself against her as hard and firm as was humanly possible. They kissed again, and this time he placed his hand on the back of her head. He grabbed her hair tightly, tight enough for it to hurt, and he pulled and—
And it came off. All those endless brunette locks.
It was a wig. And without the wig, Trudy’s appearance changed dramatically. The peekaboo hair no longer softened the hard ridges of her face. The full breadth of Trudy’s shoulders became apparent.
Loving wiped a finger across her moist upper lip. Makeup. Disguising just the faintest hint of whisker.
Trudy was a he.
32
C
hristina had tried chocolate milk. She had tried word games. She had even resorted to playing Bobby Darin songs on her harmonica. Nothing worked. Ben was in a blue funk and showed no signs of emerging.
“That was disgraceful,” he muttered, over and over again. “I let Keyes and his cronies walk all over me.”
“You did not,” Christina assured him, stroking the side of his face. “You fought like a tiger.”
“Please.”
“Keyes backed off.”
“Keyes backed off after he had accomplished everything he wanted. He couldn’t push it any further without betraying whatever semblance of impartiality he thinks he still maintains.” Ben’s eyes darkened. “And worst of all—he isn’t done yet. Of that I’m certain. He has something big planned. And we don’t have a clue what it is.”
Kevin Beauregard entered the conference room, a clipboard in one hand and a cell phone pinched between his ear and his shoulder. “Have you seen this?” He punched a button on the television set and it flickered to life. CNN was replaying key moments from the previous session.
“Ugh,” Ben said, wincing, then turning away. “The only thing worse than being there being trounced is watching myself being there being trounced.” Now and ever, he hated seeing himself on television. All he noticed were the flaws—every stutter, every slouch. His bottom teeth were crooked and the camera appeared to be intentionally positioned to highlight his bald spot.
“Actually, the overnight polls aren’t bad,” Beauregard said.
Ben looked at him incredulously. “You must be joking.”
“I’m not. A lot of people think Keyes went too far. I think you’ll see him pulling back next session. Acting with a greater facade of impartiality.”
“He’ll get someone else to do the dirty work. Potter, or Matera, or some other toady.”
“Very likely. But every little bit helps, right?”
Ben was forced to agree, which went against his almost pathological instinct to oppose anything said by any person who made decisions based upon polling results.
“If only there was some way to stop the murder investigation,” Beauregard added.
“What? Why?”
“In most Americans’ minds, the murder is a big unresolved question mark. The fact that the police are still investigating—and apparently not getting anywhere—only makes it harder for us to make a case for Roush. Even if we can’t solve the murder, it would be better if we could get the investigation stopped.”
“And how exactly do we do that?” Ben asked.
“Make it political. Call it persecution. Act like it’s all something that’s been trumped up by Roush’s opponents. Polls show that Americans love conspiracy theories. The more complex and unlikely the better.”
“Kevin…” Ben said, not sure just how to put this. “A woman is dead! She was murdered. In Tad’s garden.”
“I’m aware of that. But the police don’t know who did it. They probably never will. Can’t you get them to close the investigation? Maybe call one of your friends in law enforcement?”
“No, I can’t. And I won’t. If the police decide to give up, they’re going to have to do it on their own.”
Beauregard frowned, then changed the subject. “Here’s another thing we learned from the polls. You struck a chord with many viewers when you told them you tried to have the hearings delayed until after the police had completed their investigation of the murder. A lot of people didn’t know that, and it raised some questions in their minds. Gave the whole proceeding a political taint.”
“Swell. But how does that help us?”
“Should make Keyes back down even more,” Christina suggested.
“I agree,” Beauregard said. “And it will make it harder for the President to rush in with a replacement nominee. If he can’t do that, there’s no point in trying to terminate the hearings prematurely.”
“There are still more votes on that committee against us than for us.”
“We’ll have to change their minds,” Christina said.
“We’re not going to change anyone’s mind. Who knows what really lurks in people’s minds? The votes are being controlled by power brokers like Keyes. That lock isn’t going to be changed by anything they learn during the hearing.”
“You can change the committee votes,” Beauregard said firmly.
“Excuse me? How?”
“By turning the tide of public opinion. If popular sympathy swings in favor of Roush—admittedly a long shot at this point, but if it does—you’ll see Keyes and his cronies back down. They’d have no choice, really. They’re elected officials. And most of them would like to be elected again at some time in the future.”
Ben shook his head. “I don’t see how Roush is going to accomplish that.”
“I don’t, either.” Beauregard snapped his cell phone shut and passed the clipboard to Ben. “I think it has to be done by you.”