Fair Game (10 page)

Satisfied, Ashley took everything off and put it away, then slipped on the Chinese print robe she had brought back from Hong Kong. She lay down on the bed, wishing she had time for a nap but aware that she had promised to call Harry at two with her thoughts on the file he’d sent her. Which was now sitting on the bedside table, staring at her accusingly.

She picked it up reluctantly, lifting the cover, and a yellow slip of paper fell out of it and fluttered to the bed. It was her note from the previous night, listing Martin’s sizes. 15 and a half, 34, she read. Jim was 15, 33. Martin’s neck was bigger, his arms longer. Martin was taller, too, tall and strong. She recalled the strength of his arms around her during their brief dance. He’d made her feel like a drift of swan’s down.

Then she crumpled the paper and tossed it to the floor, disgusted with herself. What on earth was wrong with her? She couldn’t concentrate at all lately; the slightest thing distracted her.

She propped a pillow behind her head and set the file in her lap, taking her pencil in hand.

* * * *

Meg exited from the side door of the hotel and then walked around to the parking lot. She was standing next to her car, fishing in her bag for the keys, when she realized that one of the tires was flat. The rim was sitting flush on the ground, the rubber squashed around it like a fallen soufflé.

Great. This was just what she needed. She considered going back upstairs and getting the keys to the limo, but she would have to take care of this sooner or later. There was a can of tire inflater in the glove compartment, if she could just get the thing blown up she could drive to a garage and have it changed.

She unlocked the car and retrieved the can of sealer, which had a set of incomprehensible instructions printed on its side. She was directed to pull the pin and unscrew the valve caps, then insert the nozzle and wait until the tire inflated to thirty pounds of pressure. How was she supposed to know when thirty pounds of pressure was reached? She was standing with the can in her hand, stymied, when she felt a presence at her elbow.

“May I help?” a man said pleasantly.

She glanced up inquiringly. He was fair skinned blond in his thirties with hazel eyes and an engaging smile. He was wearing a dark business suit and carrying a burgundy leather briefcase.

All of her mother’s warnings about conversing with strangers came flooding into her mind. “No, thanks, I don’t think that will be necessary,” she replied. “I have this can of stuff here...”

Ransom had heard this before and was ready for it. He went down on one knee, surveying the tire and shaking his head. “I don’t think that will hold for any length of time. You’d be much safer if you just let me change it for you. Do you have a spare in the trunk?”

“Well, yes, but...” Meg rambled, stalling.

He was already removing his jacket, revealing a crisp white shirt and a lean torso. “Look,” he said, holding up his hand, “you’re right to be cautious, but I’m perfectly safe, I assure you. I’ll just change the tire and go. My car is right over there. I’ll get my jack and toolbox and be right back, okay?”

Meg watched him walk away, noting his rangy build, unsure about taking his help. He unlocked the trunk of a gray Mercedes and removed several bulky items, returning promptly to deposit them on the ground next to her.

“You’ll ruin your suit,” she protested weakly as he knelt and began to remove what had to be the valve caps from her tire .

“Nah,” he replied. “I’ve got this down to a science. You’ll be on the road in ten minutes, I promise.”

He was as good as his word. She stood by and watched as he quickly and neatly exchanged the good tire for the bad one, finishing the procedure by tossing the flat into her trunk, slamming the lid, then dusting his palms on his thighs.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” she said inadequately as he shouldered back into his jacket.

“No need,” he said, grinning. He had very white teeth, the incisors slightly uneven. “I have a Sir Walter Raleigh complex.”

Meg smiled back at last. “Well, Walter, it’s nice to meet you. I’m Meg Drummond.”

Ransom removed a silver case from his inside pocket and extracted an embossed card. “Peter Ransom,” he said, giving it to her and then shaking her hand.

“So you often rescue ladies in distress?” Meg asked.

“As often as possible. Are you sure you’ll be all right now? You don’t want me to follow you?”

“No, thank you,” Meg said quickly. “I’ll be fine. But I really do appreciate your help.”

He made a self-deprecating gesture. “Glad to be of service. I’ll be on my way now, if you don’t mind.” He winked. “But get your tires checked in the future.”

Meg laughed. “I will.” She watched him return to his car, get in, and drive away.

What a nice man, she thought as she got into her own compact and turned the key in the ignition. Well-spoken and obviously prosperous. To think he would take time out from what must be a busy schedule to help her that way.

People weren’t as callous as everyone said.

* * * *

Ransom drove for several blocks and then pulled over to the side of the road, elated. It had gone supremely well. She’d reacted exactly as anticipated: she was intelligent but basically innocent, the type of person who believed in other people, as befitted the top aide to a notorious do-gooder like Senator Fair.

And she was a lot prettier than her pictures.

This was going to be a piece of cake.

* * * *

Capo stuck his head through the hall door and grinned when he saw Martin.

“Looking for company, sailor?” he said, winking and gesturing to the tuxedo Martin was wearing.

“Don’t laugh at me, Tony. You look just as ridiculous,” Martin replied, tugging at his cummerbund.

“I feel like I’m getting married again,” Capo said.

“I wore a suit when I got married. The last time I put on one of these straitjackets was for Maryann’s senior prom. And that was twenty years ago,” Martin said.

“They got us the same outfit,” Capo noted. “We look like the Bobbsey Twins.”

“The Bobbsey Twins are a boy and a girl,” Martin said.

“A couple of fools, then,” Capo said.

“I’ll go along with that,” Martin agreed. He stared at his reflection in the mirror and adjusted his bow tie, then fingered the studs in his shirt. To his everlasting gratitude they had ordered a simple black tux with a plain, off-white shirt. The only glamorous touch was the satin stripe on each of the pants legs. Still, he felt strange. It was a good thing Rourke wasn’t around to see this. He’d laugh himself sick.

Meg Drummond breezed past Capo and pronounced, “Gentlemen, you look very handsome. Sergeant Capo, you’re a vision.”

“A vision of what?” Martin mumbled. “Armageddon?”

“I heard that,” Capo said to him in a low tone. To Meg he said, “You look pretty nice yourself.”

“Thank you, Sergeant,” she said, smiling. She was wearing a soft violet Grecian-style dress that flattered her dark coloring and left one smooth shoulder bare. “The Senator is finished dressing, so I imagine we’ll be leaving soon.”

The bedroom door opened and Ashley emerged. Her hair was piled on top of her head, curling tendrils escaping at her neckline and temples. She was wearing the satin dress, luminous pearls gleaming around her slender throat and at her ears. The cape was folded over her arm.

A moment of silence greeted her arrival. Capo turned aside and rolled his eyes at Martin, tapping his heart with his closed fist. Martin kept his face expressionless, meeting Ashley’s gray gaze briefly and then looking away.

“Dad ready?” Ashley said to Meg.

Meg nodded.

“Sylvia is meeting us at the airport, right?”

“Right,” Meg confirmed.

The Senator came through the connecting doors, leaving behind in the bedroom the four or five political advisers that surrounded him almost constantly, like a hovering cloud. He was wearing a gray tuxedo with a ruffled shirt and a scarlet cummerbund. His thick silvering hair was carefully styled, and his perennially tanned skin glowed with a patina of health.

“Well, well,” he said jovially, “aren’t our boys in blue smashing this evening? And my dear, you are looking especially lovely.” He leaned over to kiss Ashley’s brow.

“Thank you,” she said politely.

Martin watched the interchange closely.

“Where’s Jim?” the Senator asked, looking around the room. “Is he taking a direct flight to New York?”

“He can’t make it,” Ashley replied shortly. “He called a couple of hours ago.”

“Oh, what a shame,” Fair said. “Well, I guess we’d better get on the road, then. Will is having the plane fueled, and it’ll be waiting for us at the airport.”

That was their cue to leave, and they filed out, the Senator conferring in a low tone with Meg, the two policemen bringing up the rear with his daughter. There were two cars waiting for them at the curb. When Fair and Meg got into the back seat of one, still talking, Capo jumped in next to the driver.

That left Ashley and Martin standing with the doorman.

“Would you sit with me?” Ashley said to Martin. “I always feel uncomfortable being chauffeured around alone in that vast back seat, like the old lady in Driving Miss Daisy ”

He opened the door, and she moved past him, sliding over to allow him to get in next to her. The driver, who had his instructions, pulled away as soon as the door closed.

The lights of the city streamed past them in a blur as they headed to the airport. After a silent interval Ashley said to him, “Tell me some more about your work. You got me interested the other night.”

Martin turned his head, feeling a stab of sympathy for her. And reluctant admiration. She’d been stood up at the last minute by her boyfriend. Now, on her way to this shindig alone, she was gallantly trying to make conversation with a semi-stranger whose only connection with her was the badge he carried in his wallet.

“I work homicide,” he replied. “Investigating murders.”

“It seems inappropriate to ask if you enjoy that,” Ashley said slowly, “but do you?”

“I enjoy solving the puzzle, putting together the clues, the evidence. I like bringing justice to somebody who really deserves to get it.”

“Do you find many of the... perpetrators? Isn’t that the word?”

“That’s the word. We find enough of them. More than the newspapers would lead you to believe. Reporters love to go on about all the ‘unsolved murders,’ but we do all right.”

“In my profession, it’s fashionable to take a dim view of policemen,” she said with a note of amusement in her voice.

“Yeah, I know. We put them in the jails and you get them out,” he replied.

“It’s not quite as simple as that. Surely you agree that in a democracy even a person accused of a crime should have certain rights.”

“I agree in principle. But if you saw, firsthand, some of the slimeballs those laws put back on the streets, you might change your mind.”

“I have seen them,” she said quietly. “During my last year of law school I interned at a federal prison and wrote appeals for incarcerated felons.”

“They must have had a great time with you,” Martin couldn’t stop himself from saying.

“There were some problems in the beginning, but once they got used to thinking of me as their lawyer, things settled down.”

“Did you have a guard in the room with you when you met with the prisoners?”

“At all times.”

“I’m relieved to hear it. It’s nice to know that the penal administration is still somewhat in touch with reality.”

“I gather that you feel women don’t belong in certain branches of the law?”

“I didn’t say that. Most people, of either sex, don’t belong inside prisons. Cons will do anything, use anybody, to get out. Lawyers, teachers, social workers, anybody going in to a prison on a daily basis is inviting a hostage situation.”

“How would you suggest convicts talk to their lawyers, visit with their families?”

“There’s a wonderful invention called the telephone. You just pick up the receiver and dial, and you can talk to anybody you want.”

“Are you suggesting that prisoners never be permitted personal visitation by anyone during the course of their terms?” She sounded as if she couldn’t believe it.

“Why not? They’re in prison, for God’s sake, not at summer camp. Weekend furloughs, work release, tutorial programs—next thing you know they’ll be importing hairdressers and masseurs to make sure the poor convicts are comfortable.”

“Lieutenant, I’m glad you’re not in Congress making the laws,” she said dryly. “You’re very tough.”

He noticed his demotion from “Tim” to “Lieutenant” and wondered if it had anything to do with the content of his remarks. “After seventeen years on the force, I have to be,” he said. He looked over at her, a dim outline in the darkened car.

She didn’t comment.

“Tell me something,” he said. “When you were working with the cons, didn’t you ever meet one of them that you wanted to wall up someplace with a bunch of bricks, like that guy in the Edgar Allan Poe story?”