Capitol Murder (15 page)

“Did her position seem . . . natural?”

Albertson looked up at his questioner. “Like she might’ve committed suicide by flinging her
head into the sofa? No, it did not look natural. It looked like something I’d be surprised a
contortionist could do. Like whoever left her there didn’t care about her in the least.”

“Objection,” Christina said. “The witness is making suppositions and characterizations, not
testifying as to what he saw and heard.”

The judge made a dithering motion with his hand. “I think that comes . . . close enough to
describing to the jury what he saw. Overruled.”

As she had been taught, Christina sat down without a frown or protest, as if it didn’t matter,
or as if she had actually won the argument. Jurors were so easily confused by legal jargon; if
you looked like you won, half of them would think you did.

“Did you find blood anywhere else in the hideaway?”

“No. We did a complete luminol wipedown. But we found no other traces of blood.”

“So it would be reasonable to conclude—”

“Objection,” Christina said, undaunted by her previous loss.

The judge didn’t need an explanation. “The witness will stick to his own personal knowledge.
We don’t need any conclusions.”

“Of course, your honor.” Padolino adjusted his tie, then plowed ahead. “Lieutenant, I forgot
to ask you earlier.” Sure you did, Columbo. “Was Senator Glancy present when you arrived at the
hideaway?”

“No.”

“Was he there when you discovered the body?”

“No. We didn’t see him until perhaps twenty-five, thirty minutes later. Most of the forensics
experts were on site by then, and we’d begun searching the place. He’d been paged, but apparently
he wasn’t carrying his pager.”

“And how did he react?”

“He took it in stride.”

“What does that mean?”

“He said he was surprised, said he didn’t know anything about it. But he didn’t jump up and
down or weep and wail or anything. He was very calm, especially considering the circumstances.”
He paused. “Not how I’d react if I found a surprise corpse in my private room, I can tell you
that.”

“Objection!” Christina said, turning on just the right amount of outrage.

The judge nodded. “I won’t warn you again, counselor. The witness’s testimony will be
restricted to what he has seen and heard.”

“Of course,” Albertson said. “I’m very sorry, your honor.”

“I instruct the jury to disregard the witness’s last statement.” As if such thing were
possible.

Padolino continued. “Did Senator Glancy say anything of interest?”

“I thought so. He said, ‘I—’”

“Objection!” Christina said, cutting him off. “Hearsay.”

“It’s an admission against interest,” Padolino replied. “Big-time.”

“Nonetheless, your honor, the circumstances surrounding the statement do not suggest
trustworthiness. The senator had just suffered a great shock. He probably didn’t even
realize—”

“From what I’ve heard,” Judge Herndon said, “the man still had his head together. And I
wouldn’t buy that objection even if he hadn’t. Overruled.”

Christina sat down, expertly masking her disappointment. She hadn’t expected to win that
objection, but on something this important it would be negligent not to make an effort.

“What he said was,” Albertson continued, “‘I tried to warn that girl.’”

This time, the reaction in the gallery was one of total silence. Ben preferred the murmurings.
They were less ominous.

Padolino continued. “Did you find anything of interest during your search?”

“Yes. The forensics teams uncovered—”

Padolino was smart enough not to wait for the objection. “Excuse me, sir. I’m asking what you
yourself may or may not have discovered.”

“Oh, right. The hideaway was pretty clean. Astonishingly clean, actually. Couldn’t even get
fingerprints.”

Christina rose, but Padolino jumped in. “But you—Lieutenant Albertson. What did you find?”

“The only item of note that I found was the Gutenberg.”

Padolino wrinkled his forehead as if he didn’t understand. “Could you please explain what that
is?”

“Sure. That’s what I soon learned the senator—and everyone on his staff—calls his appointment
book. Big thick thing. Like a Filofax, only more so. It’s bound in black leather, and he’s
apparently had it for many years, and it shows—it’s very worn. That’s why they call it the
Gutenberg.”

“I see. A little joke. Did you find anything of interest in the, uh, Gutenberg?”

“Yes. Naturally, I opened it to the present day. I found that his committee had a meeting
starting at nine that morning. A line down the side indicated he expected it to go well into the
afternoon. Nonetheless, there was another entry, just below that one. I found he’d had a ten A.M.
appointment.”

“With whom?”

“Well, as you’ll see, the book just says: 10:00, V. C.”

Another stir in the gallery, louder than before. This was a detail most of those present
probably did not know; it hadn’t been in the papers.

“V. C.? As in Veronica Cooper.”

Albertson leaned back. “Well, I assume he wasn’t visiting with the Vietcong. For that matter,
when I thumbed through the past month, I found numerous other meetings with V. C. Sometimes more
than one a day.”

Padolino nodded. “Thank you for your cooperation, Lieutenant.” He turned toward the defense
table. “Your witness.”

Stigmata was nothing like Loving expected, but of course he’d never been to a Goth club and,
for that matter, hoped to God there weren’t any back in Tulsatown. Practically everyone was done
up in the manner that Lucille had described—silver jewelry, body piercings, dark hair, pale
makeup, ruby-red or ebony-black lipstick. And in the apparel department—lots of black. Black
tops, black bottoms. Black fishnet bodices. Black leather.

What bothered Loving most was that, save for the few skimpily dressed women, most of the crowd
favored an androgynous style that made it uncomfortably difficult to tell if he was scrutinizing
the curves of a male or female. Black was a concealing color, and the silver jewelry and body
piercings seemed entirely unisex. Plus, everyone was wearing black mascara, way too much. Was
that supposed to be sexy? Loving thought they looked like they’d escaped from
Pirates of the
Caribbean
. Standing there in a white T-shirt and a Casaba baseball cap, he felt like a
whitebread turkey in the middle of Harlem.

“So this is a party bar?” Loving asked.

“More like the Little Shop of Horrors,” Daily replied soberly. “And to think my daughter came
here for kicks.” He was standing just beside Loving, but the music was so loud he had to
shout.

The lighting was low—and most of it came from the blazing torches hanging on the sides of the
faux-stone walls, giving the place the ambience of a medieval castle. Chains of human skulls were
strung together like bunting across the walls. Loving assumed they were fakes, but still . . .
creepy. Several bright white spotlights periodically shone back and forth across the dance floor,
creating a strobe-like effect. It was disorienting, disturbing, and made Loving more than a
little nauseated.

“We should talk to folks,” Loving said. “Let’s split up. Meet back here in an hour.”

Daily nodded, then headed off to the right, toward the dance floor. Loving pointed himself in
the direction of the bar. Well, that was his lot in life, right?

Loving took a seat on the nearest bar stool. Given his fish-out-of-water appearance, he knew
he’d have to work hard to get anyone to talk to him. He ordered a beer—which arrived in a
medieval goblet with a pewter base depicting writhing naked figures. Just two stools down, he
noticed a shapely young woman wearing—surprise!—black, top to bottom. Or so he first thought. On
closer inspection via the mirror opposite the bar, he realized that a vast amount of what he
initially took to be a body stocking was in fact black body paint, and that in reality she was
not wearing much at all. Just black leather boots, a black sports bra, and, around her pelvis, a
black leather thong.

“Howdy,” Loving said. The woman looked up at him, gave him a quick once-over, then returned
her attention to her drink.

This could be challenging. He wasn’t going to get her attention with stupid bar glass stunts
or by talking about dogs. He rummaged through his overcoat pockets, searching for something that
might work in a joint like this. Until he found just the right thing. He pulled the parts out of
his pocket, put both ends into place, let a few more minutes pass innocently by, then turned
toward the woman in black and smiled.

“Wanna see a trick?”

“What?” she said, in a voice almost as husky as his. “Like you’re going to pull a quarter out
of my ear or something?”

“No, no. Somethin’ much more interestin’.”

“Thanks. I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself,” Loving said, but he went right on with his routine, checking out the corner
of his eye to make sure she was watching. She was.

He pulled the large nail out of his pocket and pointed it toward his wrist.

“Oh, you might wanna scoot down a few seats,” Loving said pleasantly. “Sometimes the blood
kind of splatters around.”

“What in the—”

“Think I can drive this iron spike through my wrist with my fist?”

Loving wasn’t sure how to read her expression, but she wasn’t turning away. “God, no. And even
if you could—why?”

“I told you, it’s a trick.”

“Not one I care to see.”

“You never know. Can’t be worse than some of the stuff goin’ down on that dance floor. Here we
go.” He poised the nail against his wrist and then, in a split second, brought his other fist
down on the top of the nail, hard. The tip of a sharp bloody spike emerged from the other end of
his wrist, piercing his shirt sleeve. Blood spurted in every direction.

“Oh my God,” the woman said, leaning away but not, Loving noticed, moving away. “Are you in
pain? How can you do that?”

“Like I told you. It’s a trick.” With a swift gesture, he removed the collapsible nail from
the top of his wrist and pulled the separate, spring-loaded fake spike tip—triggered by the
impact of his blow to poke through the hole he’d already cut in his shirt and split open a bag of
red Karo syrup. “Had you goin’, though, didn’t I?”

Despite herself, the woman smiled. “So . . . that isn’t really blood on your wrist?”

“Nah. Why?”

“Just . . . wondered.” She turned away. “You are one seriously twisted dude, mister.”

“Why else would I be here?”

“So you thought you’d win me over with that sick circus trick?”

“I dunno. Did it work?” He extended his hand.

Her grip was cold and limp. Loving didn’t get the impression she was trying to be rude. She
just seemed to have a body temperature lower than most lizards. “I’m the Duchess.”

“Are you?” he replied. “I’m the Loving. You come here often?”

“Every night. But I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Yeah, it’s my first time. I didn’t know the dress code.” He noticed she had very long
nails—not real, he hoped—predictably painted dark black. The red lines and glassiness of her
eyes, her mildly slurred speech, her breath, all suggested to Loving that she was operating under
the influence. Excessive amounts of alcohol. Or something.

“Actually, I’m here lookin’ for a friend,” he added. “Her name’s Amber. Amber Daily. Do you
know her?”

“I’m afraid I’ve never heard that odd appellation.”

This from a woman who called herself
the Duchess
. “What about a girl called Lilith?
Lady Lilith?”

Even though she tried to suppress it, he saw the flicker of recognition in the woman’s
eyes.

“So you know her?”

“I’ve known a Lilith.”

“She’s twenty-two, sandy hair—or possibly black, when she comes here. Look, her dad gave me a
picture.” He passed it to the Duchess.

She glanced at it, frowned, then passed it back, facedown. “She’s one of the Chosen.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she’s permitted up there.” She pointed a long dark nail upward and across the
bar.

Just to the left of the central dance area, Loving spotted an interior staircase leading to a
room on the second floor. There were wall-sized windows on either side of the door, but drapes
pulled across them obscured the view. “And what goes on up there?”

“Don’t know. I’ve never been invited.”

“Is going upstairs a good thing?”

“It must be. Once a girl is chosen, you never see her down here again. You never see her at
all.”

Christina came to the podium with a pretty good understanding of what she could get out of
Lieutenant Albertson on cross and what she couldn’t. It wasn’t as if he were lying, after all.
Slanting things to serve his prosecutorial masters, maybe. But his testimony was essentially
accurate. She had to make what few points she could and then sit down.

“Let’s talk about the Gutenberg, Lieutenant. You said it memorialized many appointments
scheduled with V. C. And you assumed that V. C. is Veronica Cooper.”

“Well, it stands to reason—”

“Did you investigate the possibility that V. C. could be someone else?”

“Given that I had a corpse bearing those initials right there in the hideaway—”

“In other words, no. You didn’t investigate the possibility that V. C. was anyone other than
Veronica Cooper. You didn’t investigate at all.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why didn’t you consider other possibilities?”

“Ma’am, when you’ve got a dead body right—”

“Are you familiar with Senator Collins of Minnesota?”

“I . . . think I’ve heard the name.”

“Are you aware that his first name is Vincent?”

Albertson pursed his lips. “No.”

“What about Senator Conrad from Alaska?”

“I . . . haven’t had the pleasure.”

“His first name is Verne. And he’s on the same Health Committee as Senator Glancy. I would
imagine they talk quite often, wouldn’t you?”