“No.”
“Let’s call the judge in chambers,” Anna said. “We can apply for a warrant tonight. Even if the judge wants to hold a hearing, we could probably be in court before seven tomorrow morning.”
McGee frowned but nodded. He wasn’t happy about the delay, but he’d defer to Anna on the legal issue.
But Samantha looked furious. “There’s no reason to wait. Throwing someone from a balcony is not a legislative act. Any judge will let us go in there and process the crime scene.”
The strength of the agent’s reaction made Anna pause. Was she being too cautious because of the scandal she’d gone through last year? She hoped not. “I think you’re right,” she said. “But it’s worth waiting a few hours to make sure we can keep the evidence we find.”
“The killer could be gone in eight hours,” Samantha snapped.
Anna narrowed her eyes. This agent was getting on her nerves.
“All right.” Jack stepped between the two women and held up his hands. “We’ll do this with a warrant and a judge’s signature. I’ll call the judge in chambers. She’ll probably let Davenport file something and hold a hearing in the morning. Meanwhile, we’ll post MPD officers outside the office.”
Anna nodded. “I can brief the Speech or Debate Clause for the warrant application.”
“Don’t work all night,” Jack said. “You need some sleep if you’re going to argue this tomorrow.”
“You’re letting
her
argue the motion?” Samantha asked Jack.
“I don’t know the Speech or Debate Clause,” Jack said, “and Anna does. She’ll get the warrant, and the police will be back in there to do a search by midmorning.”
“If not”—Samantha glared at Anna—“we’ll know who to blame.”
4
N
icole laughed like it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard. It allowed her to tip back her head, exposing the curve of her neck and pushing her breasts farther out of her little black dress. She squirmed as if in uncontrollable delight on Tom’s lap—or was it Tim? Oh well, it hardly mattered. What mattered was that she could feel his erection straining desperately through his pants. He was ready to go.
She glanced toward the doors leading to the bedrooms. Both were closed, so she’d have to wait her turn. Not exactly a hardship. She lifted two champagne flutes from the coffee table and handed one to Tom (or Tim), who took it with a wondrous smile. He looked like a kid who’d received a pony
and
a shiny red bicycle for his birthday. She clinked her glass against his. “Cheers.”
She savored the Cristal, letting the tiny bubbles linger on her tongue. She didn’t get to party like this much nowadays. They sat on a couch in an opulent suite at the Willard. More Cristal cooled in buckets on the sideboard. The men were well dressed, well groomed, and well behaved. Auto execs from Detroit or something like that. So what if they were a little bland and round in the middle? This was the best gig she’d had in a while.
Belinda danced between two men by the bar as Sinatra crooned from the speakers. The women would’ve preferred Jay-Z, but they knew their audience. The middle-aged men weren’t natural dancers but were happy for an excuse to run their hands over the beautiful woman. Belinda was a gorgeous Chinese-American woman with dark hair floating past her shoulder blades. She wore a dress that shimmered like it was made of liquid mercury. One guy held Belinda’s hips; the other stroked her ass. Nicole caught Belinda’s eyes and lifted her glass in salute. “Thank you,” Nicole mouthed. Belinda was the one who’d included her in the party.
Belinda smiled, then leaned back to kiss the man behind her. The man in front skimmed his hands up her torso and caressed her nipples through her shimmery dress. She murmured like she was loving it. The men glanced at each other over Belinda’s head. They were wondering how far this could go. Nicole knew. If they continued to show interest in the arrangement, Belinda would lead them both to a bedroom and take one in her mouth while the other took her from behind. The men would go back to Michigan thinking they were sexual conquistadors, boldly exploring uncharted lands.
They had no idea.
Nicole glanced at Bill, the lobbyist lounging in a leather chair. He appeared satisfied, and that was what mattered. He was picking up the tab. Thank God for lobbyists. The auto execs might not even realize the girls were escorts, although they’d have to be pretty dense. But Bill was a pro, and he was trying to land their company as a client. If he succeeded, they would pay Bill exorbitant fees so he could use every means at his disposal—including girls like Nicole—to persuade certain politicians to pass laws allowing higher emissions, fewer miles per gallon, that sort of thing. Nicole wondered if anything would get done in Washington without professionals like her to lubricate the joints of power.
Bill pulled a smart silver case from his breast pocket and set it up on the coffee table. A mirror, a razor, a heap of white powder. He cut the powder into generous lines, rolled a crisp twenty into a straw, and called to the dancing threesome. The two men and Belinda each had a bump, then Bill pushed the mirror toward Nicole. She wanted a line so bad her eyes itched.
She loved the white stuff. She loved it so much that last week she’d blown her nose and found a chunk of bloody cartilage in the tissue. After she was done freaking out, she’d called a friend, who told her not to worry, it happened to everybody. It was her septum, the internal wall that separated her two nostrils. Too much cocaine had eaten it away. There was nothing she could do about it, but she couldn’t snort anymore.
So she’d started freebasing.
In fact, she’d smoked a rock in the ladies’ room of the Willard’s
lobby right before coming up here. She obviously couldn’t freebase at a party like this; it’d be like riding a donkey at a polo match. Her midwestern clients might not draw the subtle but important distinction between freebasing and smoking crack. Crack was for ghetto dwellers only; freebasing was a perfectly acceptable part of the high life. She knew they looked pretty much the same.
Nicole shook her head at Bill. “No thanks, sweetie.” Ironically, she felt all prim and proper declining the coke. She felt like the girl in an afternoon special who just said no, the goody-goody A-student, the all-American golden girl.
She felt like Caroline.
Bill shrugged and hoovered a line himself.
One of the bedroom doors opened, and a girl walked out with another dazed exec. Nicole snuggled closer to Tim (or Tom), pressing her thighs into his erection and stroking his thinning hair. She grazed his ear with her lips and whispered, “I want to show you something.” Her eyes flicked toward the bedroom door. His eyes followed.
Desire and fear fought a battle on his face. His thumb instinctively tapped his wedding band, and he was perfectly still for a moment. Then he chugged the rest of his champagne and nodded. Chalk one up for desire. She led him by the hand into the bedroom. One of the other men hooted. Nicole shut and locked the door.
A flat-screen TV, muted, provided the only illumination. Good. You wanted the room dark enough to hide imperfections but light enough to allow the visuals that would move things along. The girl before her had remade the bed, so the room looked fresh and new. Nicole had to hand it to Belinda. She ran a tight freelance operation.
Nicole sidled up to the exec. “You’re so hot,” she murmured, smiling through the lie. She kissed his neck, pungent with the scent of cigar smoke, red meat, and Scotch. The men had apparently gone to a steak house before this. She removed his clothes with skillful efficiency, gently nipping the parts that she was baring. He was naked in under two minutes, pale and pudgy as the Pillsbury Doughboy. That was par for the course.
She turned and gathered her long brown hair on top of her head. “Can you get this for me, honey?” He fumbled with the zipper on
her back. When he finally got it, she let the dress fall to the ground. He inhaled sharply, which she appreciated. She worked hard to have a body that caused that reaction.
With the dress off, Nicole wore black stilettos, a black bra and thong, a long string of pearls, and a delicate white-gold necklace with the name Bethany in cursive. She’d been told to return the necklace when she was fired, but fuck that. She’d earned it.
She arched her back and rubbed her buttocks against him. He was erect as a double-A battery. Good. Some women wanted size or stamina, but in Nicole’s profession, the smaller and quicker, the better. You didn’t want to get sore, and you didn’t want to have to work for hours, grinding and licking and ooh-babying, to close the deal. She turned, ran bloodred fingernails down his squishy chest, and pushed him onto the bed.
In other circumstances, she might have lingered over him more. The goal of every escort was to secure steady clients. Each new trick presented unknown challenges and dangers. There was less risk and better compensation if you could get a steady book of business. Regular customers were good. Getting set up in an apartment was better. Marriage was the ultimate goal. Girls who actually married johns were legends, often talked about and much analyzed, but with their true stories warped by time and exaggeration. Nicole knew that marrying a client was as rare as winning the lottery, but that didn’t stop her from buying tickets and hoping.
She knew she had a limited shelf life. Today, at twenty-two years old, she could command up to five thousand a night, although circumstances had forced her to take much less lately. That kind of cash wouldn’t even be a possibility in her thirties. Tick-tock. Nicole was constantly on the lookout for Prince Charming or, if his white horse didn’t gallop over the horizon right quick, Prince Charming Enough.
Tom (or Tim) wasn’t that guy. Married men could be fabulous clients: undemanding, apologetic, grateful. But he was from out of town, so he wouldn’t be a regular. And there was no way this mid-level auto exec had enough money to keep a girl the way Nicole wanted to be kept. She didn’t need to make him feel like he couldn’t
live without her. He just needed to have a good time and tell Bill. Quick and easy would do.
She pushed him back against the pillows and unclasped her lacy bra.
“My, my, my.” He sighed, cupping one of her bare breasts. “You are a beautiful little girl.”
Something about the way he said it reminded her of Larry. She hadn’t planned to, but she leaned down and kissed his doughy mouth. She wanted to show him how good she was. She took the string of pearls off her neck: this was her specialty.
Caroline was always going on about “the girlfriend experience.” Unless you were willing to service the fetishes, the girlfriend experience was where the money was made these days. It was about more than sex. You had to make the client feel like he was having the best date of his life. Chat, laugh, really listen. Act as if he were the most interesting person you’d ever met. Give the impression that being with him was the place you’d most like to be on earth, even if you weren’t getting a wad of cash to do it.
That was why Caroline was so damn successful. She wasn’t that much prettier than Nicole. She just had a way of connecting with people, making them feel happy and wanted. For a while, Nicole had tried to compete with that, but it wasn’t her thing. Instead, she’d mastered a few technical flourishes that kept her in the game.
She focused on the sliver of his body that was the core of her business and wrapped her string of pearls around it, starting at the bottom and winding around until everything but the head was wrapped in luminescent beads. He watched with wide eyes. “Don’t worry,” she giggled. Grasping the cylinder of pearls, she stroked up and down the shaft. Simultaneously, she took the head in her mouth. Clients told her this was a sensation unlike any other.
She watched the man’s face as her tongue traced his circumference. His eyes rolled back in his head; his mouth gaped like a carp; his hands grasped the sheets in a death grip. He either loved this or he was having a heart attack. “God, you’re good,” he gasped. Okay, he loved it. She increased the tempo and pressure. To be honest, Nicole thought this was a cheap trick. But something about the pearls
convinced clients they were getting a high-class service. As an act, it was actually easier than many options.
The man’s soft belly pressed against her forehead as he writhed. She breathed through her nose, wondered how long it would take, and angled herself so she could watch the TV as she worked. It was tuned to the news.
A reporter stood in front of the U.S. Capitol, surrounded by flashing police cruisers and yellow tape. He spoke gravely into his microphone. Nicole couldn’t hear what he was saying, but she read the banner across the bottom of the screen:
WOMAN FALLS FROM OFFICE OF CONG. EMMETT LIONEL (D-DC) AT U.S. CAPITOL.
Nicole stopped what she was doing. She sat up and stared at the TV, wiping a string of saliva from her mouth.
“Don’t stop,” the man gasped. He tried to pull her head back down, but she ducked out of his grasp.
“Where’s the remote?” she demanded.
He looked disoriented. She clambered off the bed and ran to the TV. It was one of those smooth, flat rectangles that didn’t seem to have any buttons. She searched frantically around the room. Finally, she found the remote control in the nightstand drawer. She turned up the volume.
“. . . police have not yet released the identity of the woman who died after plummeting from the third-floor balcony of Congressman Emmett Lionel’s hideaway at around eight
P.M
. tonight. Congressman Lionel’s office has no comment at this time.”
Nicole stared at the TV in horror.
“Please, honey, I’m so close.” The man reached for her, panting like he was in pain. He looked ridiculous, naked with only her pearls covering his member.
She grabbed the cordless hotel phone and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door shut. Standing by the marble Jacuzzi, she punched in Caroline’s number and prayed for an answer. It rang, then went to voice mail. She tried again. This time it went straight to voice mail.
“Are you okay?” Tim (or Tom) banged on the door. “Hey, what’s going on?”