Capitol Murder (25 page)

“And that would be . . . ?”

She looked at him levelly. “I think you already know the answer to that question.” She slipped
a finger under the shoulder strap of her dress and wriggled it down, revealing what was hidden
beneath.

Wounds. Several slashes running down her shoulder.

“I—I thought vamps bit people in the neck.”

“Some do. Unfortunately, you can kill someone that way. Shoulder wounds are less dangerous,
easier to get to, and easier to conceal afterward. They bleed a lot, but there’s no chance of
bleeding to death from a shoulder cut. It’s perfect, really.” She pulled the strap back up. “So I
can do all the things my body wants me to do, and still wear hot clothes.”

Loving shook his head. “I can’t believe you actually—”

“Have you not listened to anything I’ve said? Wake up and smell the bloodlust, handsome.” She
beckoned toward someone at the other end of the room. A moment later, they were joined by a tall
and thin, stubble-cheeked, midtwenties man wearing a leather shirt, leather pants, leather
lace-up sandals, and a black cloak. His ears and a good part of his face were covered with
piercings, and he wore a thick silver band around his neck. The man had also shaved his head,
except for one twisted strand that dangled down in front of his eyes. His face was abnormally
white: Loving suspected he used makeup to create the effect. And he was supposed to believe this
guy had a normal nine-to-five job?

“Charles,” Morticia said, “show the man your teeth.”

“Why should I?” he replied. His voice was low and guttural.

“So that he can believe.”

“I don’t get ’em out unless I plan to use them.”

“Please,” Morticia insisted. “I’ll make it worth your while later.” She looked at him
sheepishly. “Say cheese.”

The man shrugged, then, after a moment’s more hesitation, smiled.

They were properly called canines, Loving knew, or eyeteeth, but at the moment it was
impossible to think of them as anything but fangs. They were prominent, long, and extremely
sharp. Sharp enough to cut through almost anything. Or anyone.

“I’m taking you two out to dinner tonight,” Senator Glancy announced, after Judge Herndon
ended the day’s session. “Special permission from the judge—don’t have to be back to my cell till
ten. So what do you say? It’ll be just the three of us, plus my dear, sweet federal marshals. We
need to talk.”

“We could try Stan’s,” Christina suggested. “It’s nearby. It’s mentioned in all my
guidebooks.”

Glancy shook his head. “Too close to the
Washington Post
offices. I don’t want to be
spotted by a bunch of reporters. Especially reporters who’ve had too much to drink.”

“What about Two Quail? I hear it’s very elegant.”

“And packed with lobbyists. Who are even worse than reporters. At least the reporters don’t
offer to fix you up with women.”

Ben’s jaw lowered. “Lobbyists do that?”

“Ben, they’ve got gorgeous babes standing by to provide a BJ in the bathroom if you’re on
their A list. Or they’ll pick up a hottie and deliver her to your place—so you won’t be seen
doing it. And as fun as that sounds, we need someplace our privacy will be respected.”

“Then you’d better pick.”

Glancy smiled broadly. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

“The usual table, Senator Glancy?”

“If it’s convenient.”

“Of course. Right this way.”

Glancy turned back toward Ben and Christina and winked. “You gotta love it. The man acts as if
nothing has changed. No shocked expression, no double take. He’s a pro.”

Just as well, Ben thought, because he noticed a lot of double takes from the patrons as they
passed through the elegant and exquisitely chic Four Seasons restaurant on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Just a stone’s throw from the POTUS himself, Glancy had said. The Man with the Big O. Which in
this case stood for the Oval Office. “I supposed they’re used to scandals in this town.”

“It’s not that they’re jaded,” Glancy replied quietly, as they approached the secluded table
in an alcove in the rear of the restaurant’s dining area. “It’s that they’re cautious. A
politician can be down one minute, up the next. No way of predicting. One day Newt Gingrich is
practically running the country; a year later he’s writing bad science fiction novels and
reviewing books for Amazon.com. One day Nixon is humiliated and retired from politics; next thing
you know he’s the damn president. In the long run, it’s smart to be nice to everyone of
importance. Or who might be. Or ever was.”

“Or,” Christina said, “you could just be nice to everyone. Period.”

“You could. But you’ll never get yourself elected to the U.S. Senate that way.” He took the
menu from the waiter and smiled. “Thanks for humoring me. I get the impression this
fancy-schmancy haute cuisine isn’t your usual bill of fare. But I wanted to make the most of my
night out.”

“Not at all,” Ben said, as he gazed at the menu. The prices were not listed, which was never a
good sign. “If I don’t eat this way often, it’s not by choice, it’s because . . . um, because . .
.”

“Food allergies,” Christina said, bailing him out. “Has to be very careful or he gets heat
flashes. Believe me, it’s a mess.”

Glancy smiled. “You shouldn’t have any problem here. The original owner set a standard for
quality that has never been compromised. The four-star chef is probably the best in DC. Get
this—the filets are dry-hung to age for four weeks before serving. Four weeks! And this is
top-grade USDA-prime triple-plus beef. The best there is.”

Christina gazed at the menu. “Despite hailing from Oklahoma, I’m more of a fish person.”

“Of course you are.” Glancy flashed a quick smile. “Fish is brain food.” He reached across,
brushing her hair with his hand, pointing at her menu. “Let me recommend the terrine of baby coho
salmon with truffles and pistachios. It’s better than sex.”

“Really?”

“Well, no. But you know. It’s a thing people say.” He grinned again, the high-wattage smile
that got him elected.

Was it Ben’s imagination, or did it seem as if everyone in this whole damn case was trying to
hit on his partner?

“We should have brought Shandy,” Ben said, trying not to be too obvious.

“Oh, she’s been here before. And she pretends to enjoy it, for my sake. But she’s a girl of
simple tastes at heart. A good girl, loyal. Not a dishonest bone in her body. But more the
quarter-pounder type, if you know what I mean.”

“And Amanda?”

“Amanda gets off on work. It’s all she knows, all she loves. Spinning a PR disaster into a
triumph, that’s her natural high. Nothing I could give her could ever compete with that.”

After they ordered, Glancy predictably wanted to discuss the case. “Don’t take this as
criticism, Ben. Maybe it’s just my imagination, but—are we getting creamed?”

Ben took a long draw from his water crystal. “It’s much too soon to predict—”

“It’s slaughtersville, right?”

“Things always look bad when the prosecution is putting on their evidence,” Christina
said.

“Naturally,” Ben added. “I mean, we knew they had a case. If they hadn’t, they never would’ve
gone to trial. Not against you. We’re just going to have to tough it out until Padolino
finishes.” He paused. “I am sorry about the trouble with your wife.”

“Marie?” Glancy waved his hand in the air. “Don’t worry about her. She gets it. She knows how
the game is played.”

“She looked pretty upset . . .”

“Well, that’s the best way for her to play it, don’t you think?”

“I’m not quite sure I follow . . .”

“Then let me spell it out. If she didn’t cry or act distraught, people would say she’s a
coldhearted bitch, Little Miss Iceberg, which is the stereotype every woman in politics has to
fight against. If she acted as if she didn’t care what I did, it would suggest she didn’t care
about me, which would lose her the support of the middle-American housewife—the stand-by-your-man
crowd. And her being supposedly shocked about my affair isn’t going to do me any harm with the
jury—this case isn’t about whether I slept with the girl, it’s about whether I killed her. No,
I’d say Marie played it very smart.” He grabbed a roll and slathered it with butter. “Don’t worry
about my Marie. She’s a smart woman. She’ll always be on top.” He blinked, then quickly turned to
Christina. “I didn’t mean that in a sexual way.”

Ben grimaced. As if anyone thought he had—until he raised the suggestion. To Christina.

“And once Padolino has done his worst and rested,” Glancy continued. “Then what?”

Ben cleared his throat. “Then we put on our defense. Start turning the jurors’ minds
around.”

“And how exactly do we do that?”

“My investigator, Loving, has been tracking the friends of Veronica Cooper. Last time I was
able to talk to him, he thought he was onto something.”

“But he hasn’t been able to find them.”

“He found one—but she’s in the hospital, unconscious.”

“And that’s it?”

“Well, the main point we’ll be making is that the prosecution evidence really only shows that
you and Ms. Cooper were, um, you know—” He coughed in his hand. “Involved.”

Glancy smiled at Ben’s discomfort. “That would be one way of putting it.”

“But they have precious little that suggests you committed the murder. Sure, Padolino’s
created a motive for you. But he hasn’t proven Opportunity. In fact, just the opposite. One of
his own witnesses said you were in a committee meeting at the time of the murder.”

“I’m sure the prosecutor has some way around that.”

“Even if he does, it won’t prove you murdered Veronica Cooper. What he has is entirely
circumstantial.”

“As I recall, aren’t most murder convictions based upon circumstantial evidence?”

Ben fidgeted with his fork. It was harder to comfort a client who was so blisteringly smart.
“True. Eyewitness testimony is rare—murderers don’t normally commit their crimes while third
parties are watching. But these days, science has made forensic evidence the star of the show.
And juries are actually listening. Thanks to TV shows like
CSI
, the parts of the trial
that used to be the most boring and least persuasive have become what jurors give the greatest
credence. And Padolino has precious little forensic evidence against you.”

“He can trace me and the corpse to my hideaway.”

“As far as I’m concerned, that cuts against him,” Christina opined. “I mean, after all, if you
really were the murderer, would you leave the corpse in a place so obviously linked to you?”

“If I was desperate,” Glancy answered. “If I had no other choice—no time to find another
hiding place. Which is undoubtedly what Padolino will say.”

“We can also put on character witnesses who will tell the jury that given your upright
character you couldn’t commit possibly a murder.”

“After that video? You’ll never convince the jury I have any character. They think I’m capable
of doing anything.”

“I think maybe you’re being a little—”

“No, I’m being a lot. But I have to be. My entire future is on the line.” He buttered his last
piece of bread. “Sorry to be Mr. Funsucky, Ben, but I’m doing it for a reason. I suspect you’re
not planning to put me on the witness stand.”

Ben and Christina exchanged glances. “There are obvious dangers in calling you. Especially
after the video. With any public figure, there’s always plenty of grist for cross-ex character
assassination.”

“I get that, but you have no choice. Moreover, I
want
you to put me on.”

Ben shook his head. “Todd, I’m not sure you appreciate how dangerous that is.”

“I can handle myself.”

“We’re not talking about a press conference. We’re not talking about reporters tossing out
softball questions from which you can pick and choose. We’re talking about cross-examination by a
very experienced, very determined attorney who will not give you any quarter.”

“I repeat: I can handle myself.”

“And there are other dangers,” Christina added. “Some forms of evidence the prosecution can
only bring in if you take the stand. Prior bad acts or convictions. Propensity for truth telling.
You don’t want to deal with that.”

“If it saves my career—not to mention my life—I do.”

“Senator, I know you’ve had a lot of experience here in Washington, but when it comes to the
courtroom, you’d be wise to listen to Ben. He—”

Glancy held up his hand. “You don’t have to tell me about Ben. I know everything there is to
know; I wouldn’t have chosen him to represent me if I didn’t.” Ben felt his face reddening—it was
awkward being talked about as if he weren’t there. “I remember when he won the National Moot
Court Championship back in law school, whipping all those private school butts for good ol’ OU.
Brilliant argument, great command of the material. Hell, I remember seeing you at all those
hideously boring debutante parties our parents forced us to attend back in Nichols Hills. I
remember admiring you.”

“M—me?”

“Yeah. Because while I was off trying to be everyone’s friend and bed every girl on the list
and making a fool of myself drinking Everclear tornadoes—you didn’t.”

Ben squinted. “And the point of this is—”

“I must be losing my touch. I thought I’d already made it.” He smiled pleasantly at the
waiter, who had just arrived with the food. “The point is, when it comes to smart, you win hands
down. I got no bones about that. But when it comes to understanding people, I’ve got the edge.
Because while I was making a fool of myself getting to know people, how they think, what makes
them tick, you were off by yourself being smart.”

Glancy inhaled deeply, absorbing the ravishing beef-and-pecan aroma arising from his plate.
“Isn’t that magnificent? A perfect sensual experience—it almost spoils it to take a bite.” He
picked up a fork and began to slice. “I will be testifying, Ben. Count on it.”

Loving masterfully maintained a straight face. “So you’re tellin’ me you use those big sharp
fangs of yours to suck blood?”