Ballots and Blood (3 page)

“I think you'd make a great AG. Or a Supreme Court justice.” He tapped Cartwright on the arm and winked. “The Senate is just the beginning. The sky's the limit.”

Cartwright squirmed in his seat, unsure of what to say.

“Kerry, this race is winnable. The partisan role Sal's assumed as majority leader is not playing well in New Jersey.” Long turned to Jay. “What are his numbers?”

“Forty-five fav; forty-five unfav,” said Jay, reading from the legal pad. “His reelect is forty-three; new person is forty-seven.”

Long arched his eyebrows. “There you go.”

“My job approval is 68 percent,” said Cartwright.

“Trust me, we know,” replied Long. Everyone laughed. “Sal's numbers are only going to get worse once Kaplan goes on trial. The headlines are going to be ugly.”

“You're a good salesman, Mr. President,” said Cartwright, swallowing hard. “I like what I hear. I'd like to talk to my wife before I make a decision.”

“Sure, of course,” said Long with fatherly concern. “I tell candidates they shouldn't run without the approval of their spouse or their employer. The first time I thought running for president as an independent was possible was when Claire said she thought I should do it.”

Jay smiled knowingly.

“I'm honored by your confidence,” replied Cartwright.

“If you jump in, we'll put together fund-raisers in California and every major city in the country. We've got thirty-two million e-mail addresses and cell phone numbers. They'll all be at your disposal.”

Cartwright's eyes widened. “That would be great!” he exclaimed.

“Plus our 527 and c4,” offered Jay, the first time he spoke without being spoken to first. “This will be our highest national priority.”

“All of the above,” said Long. He rose from his chair and guided Cartwright to the door. “I hope you do it, Kerry. You'll be glad you did.” He shot Jay a wink. Cartwright got the feeling he was not the only U.S. Senate prospect being tag-teamed by Jay and the president. He wondered: if he ran and won, would he be able to get a set of those special presidential cuff links Long gave only to his closest friends? He hoped so.

FBI SPECIAL AGENT PATRICK MAHONEY stood in the foyer of the redbrick townhouse on M Street and watched the controlled chaos of a crime scene investigation unfold under his watchful eye. Mahoney didn't look like the typical clean-cut, well put-together FBI guy. He was thick around the middle, a shock of black hair combed above a pale face, with deep blue eyes and beetle eyebrows that darted when he talked. He could pass for a street cop, but appearances were deceiving, for Mahoney was one of the best agents in the Bureau. Which is why when the body in the townhouse turned out to belong to Perry Miller, he got the call.

Roadblocks were placed a block in either direction, snarling traffic. Bomb squad units with dogs checked every car, checking the undersides of the chassis of each vehicle with mirrors. Ten FBI vehicles and an equal number of DC police squad cars lined the street. A dozen federal agents, including four in protective suits, scoured the building for evidence, removing items in evidence bags. At the end of the block, camera crews and reporters performed live stand-ups beneath television lights. Spectators leaned over the police barricades, craning their necks and gawking, hoping to catch a glimpse of precisely what was hard to determine. The sound of police sirens, honking horns, and barking dogs filled the air.

Miller's body was transported to GWU Hospital, where a team of forensic pathologists readied for an autopsy. Police interviewed the owner of the building and identified the renter of the basement apartment as a woman who operated a dominatrix service on the Internet. She had a rap sheet two pages long, including previous arrests for income tax evasion, cocaine possession, and solicitation. A federal judge approved warrants for her phone records, e-mail accounts, and a search of her home and computer hard drive.

Mahoney ordered a complete review of the phone numbers, e-mail accounts, and credit card transactions of every client. The body language of the higher-ups in the Bureau was not good. What was the point? Miller was dead, and whoever else patronized the service was irrelevant. The suits on the seventh floor didn't like investigations that veered off the beaten track—they called them “rabbit trails” within the Bureau—especially when it was likely the dominatrix service's client list would include prominent individuals with expensive lawyers and friends in high places.

But Mahoney was a grizzled veteran who played by old-school rules. If a U.S. senator was dead in suspicious circumstances, he wanted to know why. He stood with his hands in his pockets, a practiced scowl on his face, occasionally barking a directive. One of the other FBI agents approached.

“Tell me something I don't already know,” grunted Mahoney.

“We found the girl who saw Miller,” said the agent. “DC cops just picked her up.”

“And?”

“It's bizarre,” replied the agent. “She's the girl next door: Phi Beta Kappa, UCLA undergrad, second year at Georgetown law. Law student by night, dominatrix by day. Grew up in southern California. Apparently she's been in the business for four years.”

Mahoney shook his head. “It just doesn't add up.”

“You mean golden girl lawyer in training murders prominent senator?”

Mahoney shrugged. “I don't know . . . it doesn't fit.”

“She's got an attorney and she's been Mirandized. So I don't know how much help she'll be.”

“She'll talk. Either that or she'll walk the plank on a second-degree murder charge. No amount of daddy's money will save her from a DC jury.”

“Her lawyer told police Miller was a regular customer of hers. She claims he was alive when she last saw him.”

“We'll know soon enough based on the autopsy whether she's telling the truth. But parts of this don't add up,” said Mahoney.

“What do you mean?”

“He's got bruises all over his body.”

“So?”

“Miller's married. The sex workers don't leave marks on married clients because at night they go home to their wives.”

“Maybe she lost control.”

“Maybe. But she's a pro. And even if she did kill him, she didn't have to beat him up. The guy was tied up. All she had to do was choke him to death. And these bruises were made before he died. Why?”

“I don't know.”

“Look at this place. It looks like your grandmother lives here. Nothing out of place, nothing stolen or missing, clothes neatly folded, no sign of a struggle, no clothing hurriedly discarded. That's odd, given how he supposedly died.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I'm saying maybe someone wanted him dead.”

“Who?”

“Lots of people. Terrorists, hate groups, Islamic extremists, the mob, any number of people. If someone wanted him dead and they knew he was a client here, they could have killed him and brought his body back here and everyone would assume he died at the hands of someone else.”

“Like our Girl Scout in leather.”

“Exactly.”

“Good luck selling that to a DA. What's next? Shots fired from a grassy knoll. . . . Lee Harvey Oswald worked for the Russians?”

“That was LBJ, not the Russians,” said Mahoney with a sly smile. “I'm just asking questions. And so far I'm not finding answers.”

“DOJ doesn't like it when there are questions with no answers.”

“Neither do I.”

Mahoney walked back out on the front porch and looked down the street. He suspected someone (or something?) far more sinister than a twenty-four-year-old Georgetown law student was behind the death of Perry Miller. But who? Before Mahoney could pursue his hunch, he needed to convince the suits in the Bureau. To do that, he would need a powerful ally, . . . and he thought he knew where to find one.

3

G
overnor Mike Birch sat on the back terrace of the Governor's Mansion in Tallahassee sipping black coffee from bone china as he surveyed his fourth newspaper of the day. He spooned granola and strawberries from a bowl and occasionally sucked a soy milk protein shake through a straw. Birch consumed as much protein a day as a body builder. He had the metabolism of a hummingbird and the daily carbohydrate intake of a runway model. He read the
Miami Herald, Orlando Sentinel,
the
St. Petersburg Times,
and the
New York Times
each morning and also scanned news Web sites and political blogs incessantly. He was primarily interested in stories about himself, and today there was no shortage of them. Everyone wanted to know who he would appoint to the Senate seat made vacant by the death of Perry Miller.

With closely cropped silver hair, a deep tan, and penetrating black eyes, he had the wiry build of a marathon runner. He recently declined Bob Long's offer to serve on the U.S. Supreme Court, thoroughly embarrassing Long in the process. Birch then supported Diaz—the Hispanic vote was the golden ticket of Florida politics. Widely considered the front-runner for the Republican nomination for president, Birch prepared for a general election contest pitting him against Long and an as-yet-to-be-determined Democratic nominee.

Which was why he was stunned when a butler appeared holding a phone. “Governor, President Long is on the line.”

Birch dropped the newspaper and raised his chin, snapping off his reading glasses. “Well, what do you know. I wonder what he's offering me this time.” The two had not spoken since the icy call in which Birch rejected the Supreme Court appointment. He picked up the receiver.

“THIS IS MIKE BIRCH.”

“Mike, Bob Long,” said the president.

“Mr. President, good to hear from you. To what do I owe this honor?”

“The honor's all mine, Mike,” said Long smoothly. “I only wish the circumstances were better. I'm referring of course to Perry Miller dying.”

“Everyone's in shock down here, Mr. President,” said Birch. “Not just by the suddenness of his death but by the circumstances. I'm still trying to wrap my mind around it. The guy was a Boy Scout.”

“I know,” said Long, tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. “He was leading the charge on the Iran sanctions bill, which may be our last chance to avoid a military conflict with Iran. I don't know who can fill Perry's shoes.”

An awkward silence ensued, which Birch declined to fill. Long continued: “As with me when Peter Corbin Franklin died, you've got a big decision to make, my friend. I don't envy you.”

“Yes, I do. Of course in the case of Franklin, the House started the process of replacing him before he was even gone,” said Birch, twisting the knife, alluding to Speaker Gerry Jimmerson and the right-wing Republicans trying to impeach Franklin while he lay in a coma. It was a wicked shot—and a reminder of why Birch rejected Long's offer.

“Yes, well, emotions run high in the House, I'm afraid,” demurred Long, refusing to be drawn into rehashing the past. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I'm thinking of you as you mull it over. If there's anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

“Such as?”

“Such as discussing possible replacements—off the record.”

“I appreciate the offer,” said Birch in a hollow voice. “But in general I've found it's best to keep one's own counsel. Too many people talk. No offense intended.”

“None taken. Are you thinking of appointing a placeholder or someone who will run next November?”

“I haven't thought about it. To be honest, I'm still absorbing the news,” lied Birch. He thought to himself:
Long is shameless! He didn't even wait for the body to get cold. “
My plan is to appoint the best person and let him or her decide. At the end of the day, if I'm able to appoint a real strong person, it would be best if they ran and got elected because they'd carry their seniority into the new Congress. That would be good for Florida.”

“Mmmm-mmmm,” said Long. “Speaking of what's best for Florida, why not appoint yourself? I can't think of anyone who could do a better job than you.”

Birch was floored. “I haven't really thought about it,” he said curtly.

“You should. You've got the two vital qualities needed in the Senate. You're capable, and you won't caucus with Sal Stanley.” He let out a wicked laugh.

“Well, if I were going to appoint myself, I sure wouldn't tell you,” said Birch, chuckling.

Long laughed, shaking off the insult. “Well, I don't care who you appoint as long as it's a Republican. One less vote in Stanley's back pocket will be good for America. I think there's a chance the Democrats will lose control of the Senate. If they do, you'll be a hero.”

“My concern is not to be a hero,” Birch replied with false modesty. “My only concern is appointing the right person. And I will look at Democrats as well as Republicans, especially given the fact the voters of Florida elected a Democrat to the seat.” He could almost feel Long recoiling over the phone line.

“I see your predicament,” said Long abruptly. “I'm sure you'll do the right thing. Just wanted to check in with you. Good luck.” He couldn't get off the phone fast enough.

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

Birch hung up the phone and shook his head in wonder. Did Long really want him to appoint himself, thinking it might weaken him in the presidential race? Or was he just playing head games?

He picked up the phone again and quickly dialed the cell phone of Nick Furhman, his chief political advisor and sounding board on all things.

“Good morning, Governor,” said Furhman, who was on his way to the office.

“Guess who just called me about the Senate seat?”

“Let me guess . . . Don Jefferson,” said Furhman in a drawl laced with contempt. Jefferson was a famously ambitious wingnut from central Florida. It was an inside joke that Birch wouldn't appoint him if he was the last man alive.