F Paul Wilson - Novel 02 (17 page)

 
          
Gerry
preferred Irish sipping whiskey, preferably Black Bush. But if wine was the
only thing, he usually toughed it out with white zinfandel.

 
          
No
wine snob he.

 
          
He
could see Gin was hurt. She spoke softly, almost matter-of-factly, over her
glass of valpolicella, swirling then sipping it, swirling and sipping. Her
voice was steady, as were her hands, she looked perfectly composed. But Gerry
sensed the pain.

 
          
As
his mood darkened, he wished he hadn't brought her here. The gleaming surfaces
of the polished brass and chrome and marble of the Sommelier were too clean,
too bright for the story she told. They should have been in a seedy cocktail
lounge.

 
          
No.
This was better. Clean and shiny suited her. Here it was only the third time
they'd been together and already he was feeling protective.

 
          
And
so attracted. He hadn't felt this way since college, when he and Karen had started
dating and getting serious. A good, warm feeling.

 
          
Thoughts
of Gin were beginning to intrude on his work. He'd find himself thinking about
her at the most inconvenient times, wondering what she was doing, wondering if
she was thinking about him.

 
          
And
now he was sharing her anger, her anguish. She had expected better of a
U. S.
senator's office. She deserved better.

 
          
Sometimes
he hated this goddamn town.

 
          
"That's
the way it is here," he told her after she finished. "Not just with
you. With everything. It's a mindset."

 
          
"So
I shouldn't take it personally?" Her eyes flashed. "Is that what
you're saying?"

           
"Yes and no, " he said
slowly. Had to choose his words carefully here. He didn't want to wind up a
lightning rod for that anger. "You should be offended, angry, even feel
humiliated, but realize too that Blair is simply doing what comes naturally on
the Hill. He's just playing by the rules as he's learned them."

           
"Hill rat," she said,
shaking her head. "Boy, if ever a term fit someone. But aren't there
laws?"

           
"Yeah, probably written by the
Hill rats themselves, and passed by their bosses. But for other people, for the
constituents. They don't apply up here on the Hill. You've entered an ethical
Twilight Zone."

 
          
"You
seem so casual about it."

           
Was he? Was she right? Had he been
investigating political corruption long enough to take it for granted? Maybe.
He didn't like that answer. But he wasn't talking about blatant graft here. No,
it was more of an atmosphere, an ambience. A different set of values. "I
can't be casual about you being hurt."

           
She gave him a little smile. He
loved the way her lips curled up at the corners. Her eyes said thank you.

 
          
He
reached across and gripped her hand. She didn't pull away.

 
          
"Look,
Gin," he said. "If you want to be a part of the doings on the Hill,
you're going to have to play by their rules. The people up here aren't going to
change for you."

 
          
"I
never expected them to, but,"

           
"Think of yourself as having
entered the world's largest bazaar, where everything is for sale but no prices
are marked. The currency is influence, and the best hagglers walk away with the
fullest shopping carts."

 
          
"That's
pretty damn grim, Gerry."

 
          
"Gin,"
he said, leaning forward, "I'm sure you see influence peddling in hospital
politics, but that's penny-ante stuff. This is the major leagues. This Blair
guy, he's got influence with his senator to get you something you want, you, in
turn, have got something he wants. Sounds as if he's experienced at the game,
very circumspect in his hallway negotiation, and that's just what it was, a
negotiation. And don't think that it occurred in an empty hallway by accident.
No quid pro quo proposition, just a generous offer to help you deal with a
possible hitch in your appointment. And no witnesses. Very smooth."

 
          
"You
sound as if you almost admire him."

 
          
"I
will admire my fist in his face if I ever meet up with him," he said.

 
          
Gerry
was rewarded with another smile, this one big enough to reveal the glistening
white of Gin's teeth.

 
          
"Don't
get yourself in trouble on my account."

 
          
"It's
a good account."

           
"Does that mean I can make a
professional request?"

           
"Professional?"

           
"Yes. Police-type stuff. I'm
trying to find out about Duncan Lathram's daughter."

           
Gerry felt his insides tighten as
they always did at mention of Lathram's name, but he remained impassive.
Obviously she was tired of talking about Joe Blair.

 
          
"What
about her? She in trouble?"

           
"No. She died in an accident
five years ago."

           
"What kind of accident?"

           
"A fall at home."

 
          
"You're
suspicious about something?"

           
"Oh, no. Not at all. I just
can't find out anything about her. Nobody's talking."

 
          
"It's
just idle curiosity, then?" He could tell from her manner it was anything
but she was holding something back.

 
          
"No.
I don't know what it is, really. I was just wondering if you could get hold of
a copy of the death certificate." Now there was an odd request. But not a
difficult one if you knew who to call. And perfectly legal. Death certificates
were public records.

 
          
"No
biggee. Just have to know where she lived at the time. The rest is easy."

 
          
"Alexandria,
I believe. Northern Virginia for sure."

 
          
"Okay.
Have it for you in a day or two." And he would. But first he'd give it a
thorough going over himself. His curiosity was piqued. "Unless there's a
rush." He watched her closely as she answered.

 
          
"No.
No rush." That settled, he could almost see her drift away as she lapsed
into silence. She sighed.

 
          
He
said, "What are you thinking?" Was it about Lisa Lathram, or about
this Blair character, or something else?

 
          
"Maybe
you and Duncan are right. Maybe I'm not cut out for this town."

           
So . . . it was back to Blair. An
ache grew within him as he sensed the disappointment in her voice, watched
discouragement etch lines around her frown. He wasn't sure what, but he was
going to do something.

 
          
"Don't
give up hope," he said. "Things have a way of working out."

           
"Maybe sometimes, " she
said. "Not this time" He drained the white zinfandel.

 
          
"You
never know, Gin. You never know."

           
Gerry stood in the wide,
fresh-smelling, brightly lit hallway outside the apartment door in the
Watergate-at-Landmark, a high-rise condo complex in northern
Virginia
, and waited for his ring to be answered.

 
          
He
knew Blair was home, a hang-up phone call had confirmed that. Maybe he was
eating. Gerry hoped he was alone. If he wasn't, Gerry would have to improvise.
But one way or another, he was going to make this creep see the light.

 
          
As
soon as he'd left Gin at her car he'd hustled up Pennsylvania to the Bureau. He
ran a check on Blair, but no criminal record. Too bad.

 
          
That
would have made things easier.

 
          
So
he'd have to bluff.

 
          
Gerry
shrugged some of the tension out of his tight shoulder muscles.

 
          
This
sort of unofficial visit could land him in a serious load of official trouble
if Blair called his bluff.

 
          
But
Gerry knew how these highly placed Hill rats operated. They couldn't vote, but
lots of times they had control of the line by line wording of a bill, and that
could be more important than a Yea or Nay.

 
          
The
lobbyists courted them with trips, gifts, and honoraria for speaking
engagements, just like their bosses. Gerry remembered one case, still mentioned
by Hill rats in awed tones, of two staffers, Michaels and Bill Patterson, who
netted a total of twenty eight thousand dollars from a host of lobbyists in
forty-eight hours.

 
          
Blair
no doubt had dreams of topping that record.

 
          
Gerry
meant to disturb those dreams.

 
          
Because
if Blair planned to cash in all the influence chips that would accrue from the
Guidelines bill, the last thing he wanted was a ticked-off FBI agent watching
his every move.

 
          
But
Gerry didn't have much time Mrs. Snedecker had said she'd keep Martha a couple
of extra hours today. Gerry would have to get to it with Blair right away.

 
          
The
condo door opened and a pale face with a see-through mustache cautiously peered
at him through the opening. This was a gated building.

 
          
Drop-in
company was not the norm.

 
          
"Yes?"
Gerry held up the same badge that had got him past the doorman.

 
          
"FBI,
Mr. Blair." Blair opened the door a little wider for a better look. He
squinted at the badge.

 
          
"What
is it? What do you want?" Gerry flipped the leather badge folder closed
and stepped closer, quietly wedging his foot against the bottom edge of the
door. He slipped the badge into his pocket.

 
          
'"Don't
worry. It's not official business."

           
"Then what?"

           
Gerry put a hand against Blair's
chest and gently pushed him back into his apartment. There were times when
subtlety was called for and times when it wasn't.

 
          
"You
and me, Blair. We're gonna have us a little talk."

GINA

           
GINA YAWNED AS SHE HEADED FOR THE
DOCTORS lounge. A busy night at Lynnbrook. Sometimes she could catch a catnap
during the shift. Not this time.

 
          
Not
that she would have got much more sleep if she'd stayed home. What a state she
was in. Worse than waiting to hear about her residency match. Almost as bad as
the months waiting to hear if she'd been accepted into medical school.

 
          
She
ran into Dr. Conway again.

 
          
"I
see Mrs. Thompson finally went home. That must be a relief."

 
          
"I
guess so. Everybody's making nice-nice now that they think I caved in.
Actually, she made a dramatic turnaround. Almost miraculous. One day she's
dragging around, next day she's chipper and demanding to go home." A warning
bell sounded in the back of Gin's brain.

 
          
"When
was that?"

           
"Wednesday."

 
          
"I
wonder, ' Gin said uneasily. "I had a talk with her just the night before
and she said she'd heard you were in trouble because of her. I remember her
saying something like, I won't be a burden to anyone. I'll be out of here
sooner than you think."

           
Conway
stared at her. "Christ. That'd be just
like her." He picked up the phone and called medical records. He got Mrs.
Thompson's phone number and dialed. And listened. He redialed and listened
again. Then he hung up.

 
          
"No
answer. I'm going over there."

 
          
"She
could be out," Gin said.

 
          
"At
seven A. M.? A seventy-eight-year-old lady?"

           
"I'll go with you."

           
"You're on duty. I'll let you
know how it goes."

           
Gin spent the next hour wondering
what
Conway
would find. When she wasn't thinking about
that, it was back to the committee. At one point she found herself dialing her
apartment, readying to activate the remote playback on her answering machine.

 
          
What
am I doing? she thought, and hung up.

 
          
It
was too early. No one from a senator's office would be calling before ten.
Before noon, more likely.

 
          
She
was about to leave when she was paged by the emergency department.

 
          
Dr.
Conway was asking for her assistance.

 
          
Gin
found him standing by the x-ray box, studying a chest film. She took one look
at the opacified right lung field and said, "Not Harriet, I hope."
Conway nodded. "Found her on her back steps, barely conscious, a bunch of
bread crusts in her hand. Looked like she'd gone out to feed the birds last
night and collapsed."

 
          
"She
was out all night?"

           
"Sure as hell looks that way.
She's shocky, hypothermic, and hypoxemic, plus", he tapped the chest film,
"three fractured ribs and I'll bet that's a hemothorax. I called in
Fielding. He's going to intubate her and put her on a respirator, then it's up
to ICU ." He snapped the film off the view box. "Damn! I never should
have sent her home!"

           
"She told you she was fine. What
else were you going to do?"

           
"I should have seen through
that. I believed her because I wanted to. I was so damn glad to get the PRO and
the rest of them off my back I jumped at the chance to discharge her."

 
          
"Don't
be so hard on yourself," Gin said. "Where is she?"

           
Conway
jerked a thumb over his shoulder at one of
the curtained-off alcoves.

 
          
Gin
wasn't sure which way to go until she saw Fielding, the pulmonologist, step
through a set of curtains and approach the nurses station. She slipped behind
the curtains.

 
          
Harriet
Thompson was almost unrecognizable. The right side of her face was swollen and
purple where it must have struck pavement. A ribbed plastic tube curved from
the corner of her mouth, connected by a larger tube to a hissing and puffing
respirator. Her eyes were half open but they weren't seeing anything. Gin
gripped her hand and gave it a squeeze.

 
          
'"Hang
in there, Harriet," she said. "You're in good hands." There
wasn't much Gin could do. Between Conway and Fielding and the ICU staff, all
bases were covered. When she came out, she patted Dr. Conway on the back and
wished both him and Harriet good luck.

 
          
She
got behind the wheel of her Sunbird and rubbed her burning eyes.

 
          
She
was scheduled to assist Duncan this morning. Despite her fatigue, that had its
up side, time would move faster. But first a shower.

 
          
She
noticed the message light blinking on her answering machine. She hurried over
to it but her finger hesitated, hovering above the replay button. Dread and
anticipation swirled through her. Was this it? The big turndown?

 
          
She
shook herself. She was going off the deep end. No way it could be Marsden's
office.

 
          
She
hit the button. It was Gerry. A rush of warmth filled her at the sound of his
voice. He'd been so sympathetic yesterday.

 
          
Hi,
Gin. It's about eleven now. I forgot you were moonlighting tonight, so you
probably won't hear this till tomorrow morning. But I want to remind you to
call me as soon as you hear from Marsden's office. the . It's a good bet you'll
be hearing early. When you get word, call me at home. I won't be leaving till
around nine. Good luck, but it'll be their good luck to get you. Bye.

 
          
How
sweet, she thought, smiling as she hit the erase button. And how naive. She
wouldn't be hearing early from anyone.

 
          
Funny,
though, how sure Gerry seemed about the early call. And he was anything but
naive.

 
          
Gin
heard the phone ringing as she stepped out of the shower. Still dripping, she
wrapped a towel around herself and rushed to the bedroom to grab it. It was
Alicia Downs.

 
          
"You're
in, Gin." Gin was stunned, speechless for a moment.

 
          
"Hello?"
Alicia said. "You still there?"

           
"Yes. I'm here. I just can't
believe this. I'm in?"

           
"You are. I heard Blair
telling one of the secretaries to call you and give you the word. I'm doing it
for her."

           
"But how?"

           
"Don't ask me. I put in my
vote for you. I don't know about Blair. All I know is that sometime between
last night and this morning the senator made up his mind. You're our new
legislative assistant on medical affairs."

           
She felt weak. "This . . .
this is wonderful. Thanks for the call. And for your support."

           
"Don't thank me. I mean, I
think you're a nice person and bright and I'm sure you'll do a good job and
all, but I want you for other reasons. You'll be a good PR asset."

 
          
"An
asset. Wow." Alicia laughed.

 
          
"Hey,
you're not just a doctor, you're a bright, attractive, female doctor fresh out
of training. You're not
Washington
. An outsider, no connections to the bureaucracy. You're now. Your
presence shows the senator's got a mind open to fresh ideas from the medical
profession." Gin felt herself going cold, and not from the water dripping
down her legs.

 
          
"Look,
if I'm just going to be window dressing, you can tell,"

           
"No way. Not with this
senator. He wants you for your medical expertise. I'm the one who's concerned
with appearances."

 
          
"That's
a relief. I think."

           
She laughed again. "Relax,
Gin. You're in. And you're in with one of the good guys. I've been earning my
living up here for twenty years now, and Senator Marsden is the first guy in a
long time to restore my faith in the electoral process. I can't tell you what a
joy it is to polish the image of a guy you really like."

           
"That's good to hear. Really
good."

 
          
"Then
I take it you accept?"

           
"Of course I do." Great.
Our staff is meeting here tomorrow at ten A. M. sharp. I hope you don't have
any major plans for the weekend."

 
          
"Well,
nothing firm." She'd been hoping she and Gerry might get together.

 
          
"Good.
With the hearings opening next week, you can expect to work through the
weekend. Welcome aboard. See you tomorrow." Gin hung up and stood in the
center of her bedroom, grinning foolishly, absently toweling herself off as she
let the reality sink in.

 
          
"I'm
in. I . . . am . . . in! " She pumped her fist into the air.

 
          
"Yes!"
As she dried her hair, she began to dance around, shuffling into the front
room, blindly turning, gyrating, undulating her hips in time to a regge tune on
the radio.

 
          
Here
she is, ladies and gentlemen! The latest, the greatest, the hottest legislative
assistant in the nation's capital, dancing under her stage name, Pasta
Primavera, with her own exclusive interpretation of the Hill Rat Hustle!

 
          
Gin
lowered the towel from her hair and found herself in front of the bay window,
standing nude as a jaybird over
Kalorama Road
.

 
          
"Whoa!"
She ducked away and hurried back to her room. As she pulled open her underwear
drawer she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror.

 
          
She
turned to give her body a closer look, twisting this way and that to get
different angles on her breasts and hips.

 
          
The
hips were a little more generous than she liked. But her abdomen was nice and
flat. She ran her hand lightly over the puckered scar of her old incision, then
traced a fine line of hair down to the dark tangle over her pubes. Time for
another bikini wax.

 
          
Not
too bad, she thought. Not too bad at all for an old broad looking thirty in the
eye.

 
          
She
had two careers now. Why not go for a third as Pasta Primavera, exotic dancer?
No . . . there was another term for it, a
Duncan
word. What was it . . . ?

 
          
Ecdysiast
flashed into her mind.

 
          
Right.
Regina Panzella, doctor, legislative assistant, and ecdysiast.

 
          
She
tried a little bump and grind before the mirror.

 
          
Pretty
lame.

 
          
Ah,
well.

 
          
She
turned away and began picking through her underwear.

 
          
Once
she was dressed, her high spirits were brought down by the thought of Harriet
Thompson. She called the Lynnbrook ICU and learned she was stable. Okay.