Capitol Murder (3 page)

“Does that include you?” he asked, a sickening, raffish expression on his face.

As if to answer, with both hands, she pushed in on her bosom, which was already all but
spilling out of the brassiere. “What do you think?” she asked, in a coy, singsong voice. “Brand
new.”

“Which,” Glancy replied. “The bra or the boobs?”

“The bra, silly.” She put her finger in her mouth, sucked on it, then pulled it out, slowly,
biting down on her nail just before she finished. “The whole outfit. I’ve been wearing it under
my suit all day. Just waiting for you. Waiting till we had a chance to be alone together. You
like?”

“Yeah,” Glancy replied. Because the camera was focused on the woman and the sofa, his head was
now off the top border of the screen. “I like.”

The woman lay back against a sofa cushion with her legs slightly spread. “You want to show me
how much you like it?”

“I think I can do that.” His hands moved below the screen, but it was obvious he was pulling
down his pants and advancing toward her.

The woman’s eyes ballooned. “Oh God. I didn’t mean—I—You’re—”

“Waiting for you, baby.” She leaned back as if to lie down, but he held her by the shoulders
and pulled her closer to him. Pixilated masking obscured his groin area. “Show me how bad you
want me, baby.”

“Oh, honey, I—I—can’t—” She was staring at him—staring at his pelvis—with unmasked horror. “I
can’t—put—that—”

“Sure you can, baby.” He pulled her closer to him, even though she was visibly resisting. “I’m
your Sugar Daddy, right? Your all-day sucker. You said you wanted me inside you. Here’s your
chance. Get to work.”

“Oh God, Todd, I—” As he pushed her face nearer to him, the pixilated masking spread from his
groin to cover most of her head, but the audio continued uninterrupted. “Please, I—I—mmph—”

Her voice was obscured by a series of gagging noises. The captioning couldn’t possibly
transcribe this dialogue, but it didn’t matter. No matter what language viewers spoke or wrote,
they would have no trouble interpreting this scene.

The man’s head was still off screen, but his torso stiffened. “Oh yeah. Oh yeah, baby. That’s
it. That’s exactly it.”

“Mmmph—mmm—” She was struggling, but with his arms locked around her, there was nowhere to go.
Her eyes, the only part of her face that wasn’t obscured, were wide and panicky.

“Just a little more, baby. We’re almost there.” His hips started rocking. “Oh my God. Oh yes.
Oh yes.” He began to shout, twisting back and forth. “Oh yes! Oh yes yes yes yes
yeeeeeessssss
!”

When he was finished, he leaned back, releasing her, and pulled his pants up. He smacked her
once on the side of her left buttock. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

As soon as she was free, the woman rolled over. Her head was out of the camera frame, but the
audio made it clear she was retching, then gasping for air, then retching again, her body
convulsing with each new upheaval.

And then, abruptly, the tape ended, replaced by the image of the commentator who had
introduced the piece. “And there you have it. Cynthia, what do you think?”

She didn’t need to speak. The expression on Cynthia’s face effectively conveyed what she
thought. “Well . . . ,” she began slowly, “of course, dressing up or playacting during sex is not
that uncommon. The domination–subjugation model is a common facet of many people’s sex lives, and
some forms of . . . punishment, such as spanking, while arguably aberrant, are not that unusual.
But what we just witnessed on that videotape, particularly given the persons involved and the
apparent absence of consent, went far beyond the bounds of . . . of . . . I mean, did you hear
the girl vomiting? He obviously—”

Ben switched the television off. “Ugh. Too much information.”

Loving’s lower lip protruded. “I was kinda interested . . .”

“I think we’ve seen enough. I don’t need the color commentary.”

Christina had a hand pressed against her mouth. Her face had turned a greenish tint that, Ben
noted, did not go particularly well with the red hair. “Are you okay? That was rather gross.”

“Übergross,” Christina corrected him. “What do you think will happen to Glancy?”

Ben puffed out his cheeks. “Well, for starters, I think he’s probably going to be dropped from
my mother’s Christmas card list.”

The phone rang. A moment later, Jones held his hand over the receiver and whispered across the
lobby. “Ben? It’s for you.”

At the moment, Ben had an overwhelming desire to brush his teeth. “Is it something that can
wait?”

Jones shook his head fiercely no.

Something about the expression on his face made Ben’s Spidey-senses start tingling. “Who’s
calling?”

“It’s from Washington. As in DC.”

All heads slowly turned toward Jones. Ben made his way to the phone. “Where in
Washington?”

Jones pointed toward the caller ID screen on his phone console. “The U.S. Senate, that’s
where.” He pushed the receiver firmly into Ben’s hand. “I think you’d better take the call.”

Ben was crushed with disappointment as they exited the overpass for I-395. Even though he knew
they were nearing Capitol Hill, the neighborhood was, to put it politely, a dump. They were
surrounded by all the hallmarks of abject poverty: low-income housing, trash in the streets,
rampant graffiti, broken chain-link fences, homeless people holed up in cardboard boxes. He
spotted two teenage boys in stocking caps huddled between homes, doing what looked very much like
a penny-ante drug deal. Ben had read that DC had an astronomical crime rate, and gazing at this
neighborhood, he didn’t doubt it.

Jones turned onto C Street, and the view gradually improved. Shantytown gave way to tall
narrow brick townhouses, one squeezed closely up against the next. He could believe that
congressional staffers could conceivably live here, although he was beginning to understand why
most members of Congress had places in the suburbs.

“We’ve arrived,” Jones said at last. “And we’re early. Let’s take a spin around and see the
sights.”

Ben gazed at the shimmering image of the Lincoln Memorial in the famed Reflecting Pool.
Magnificent. The cherry trees were in bloom, and the Main Mall was dotted with picnickers,
families tossing Frisbees, and aging hippies handing out flyers. They whizzed by the Holocaust
Museum, then the Vietnam War Memorial—the first one. Ben marveled at its sheer stark blackness. A
perfect commemorative of a stark black war, he thought. And all those names.

“There it is,” Jones said, pointing ahead of them. He was driving the rental car down New
Jersey Avenue, and doing an admirable job of it, maneuvering through the frenzied DC traffic.
They raced past the corner of Independence and South Capitol.

Ben didn’t need Jones’s help to spot it—Capitol Hill, the white sculpted dome glistening in
the bright sunlight. A magnificent work of architecture. Again Ben felt his heart swelling.
Gazing at this fabulous construction, it would be easy to become a superpatriot. Especially
since, from this distance, you couldn’t make out any of the people who inhabited it.

“This is the House side,” Ben said. “We need to get around to the north—that’s where the
Senate is.”

Jones complied. “Which building?”

“The Senate has three office buildings—the Russell, the Dirksen, and the Hart. Senator
Glancy’s office is in the Russell.” He leaned forward and pointed. “That one.” Jones turned
toward First and Constitution Avenue.

“That’s the side entrance where he told us to come in,” Ben continued. “I’ve got our passes.”
Jones pulled up behind a cab stand. Ben, Christina, and Loving popped open their doors.

“Shouldn’t there be some sort of formal greeting party?” Christina asked. “Team Kincaid has
arrived.”

“Guess all the heralds and buglers are momentarily occupied.”

A sign by the curb informed them in no uncertain terms that although this was a valid drop-off
point, anyone trying to park here would be immediately apprehended by surveillance guards. “Wait
a minute,” Jones said. “What am I going to do?”

“Guess you’ll have to stay with the car,” Ben replied, gathering his briefcase.

“What am I, the chauffeur? I’m a college graduate, Ben. A skilled professional.”

“Sorry. I don’t see any alternative. We’ll call you when we’re done.”

Jones watched, teeth clenched, and the three of them clambered out of the car, leaving him
behind. “Swell,” he muttered under his breath. “We come all the way to Washington, DC, and once
again I’m stuck at the children’s table.”

“Can you believe the security?” Ben whispered to Christina. They were standing in line,
waiting for their turn to be scanned and searched by the officers posted at the X-ray and metal
detectors.

“After 9/11? Yes, I can.” She stepped forward, laying her briefcase flat on the conveyor belt,
then waiting while the female Capitol police officer waved a metal detection wand from her head
to her toe. “Would you think it funny if I told you I’m getting a real charge out of this?” The
guard laughed, but not much.

Loving was next through the portal. He had to take off his shoes, then his belt, but he got
through in a minute or two.

And then it was Ben’s turn.

“Sorry for the inconvenience,” the officer said, “but this is the seat of the American
government. We can’t be too careful.”

“Right, right,” Ben said, as he removed his college ring, then his belt, then the brand-new
Harold’s shoes he’d bought just for the occasion. His mother told him that important people judge
you by your shoes.

“Thank you, sir. Appreciate your cooperation.” The officer waved the wand over him again—and
it beeped just as it reached his waist.

“Sir,” the officer said, “do you have any, er . . . any studs?”

“Studs?” Ben tried not to raise his voice. He knew the man was only doing his job, an
important job, but this was a little exasperating. “Of course not.”

“He is a stud,” Christina said quietly, from her vantage point, “but he doesn’t have any.”

Loving gave her a look but made no comment.

“What about any, um, any . . .” He cleared his throat. “Any implants?”

“What, like have I had my breasts augmented?”

“No, sir. I was talking about, um, you know, your . . . penile implants.”

Christina covered her face with her hand.

“They have been known to set off the detectors on occasion,” the officer continued. “Some are
made of nitinol reinforced with a copper alloy, so when the machines are on their most sensitive
settings, as they are today—”

“No,” Ben said, with a sort of low growl, “I do not have—nor do I need—any . . . what you
said.”

The Capitol police officer nodded, his face a phlegmatic mask. He could’ve been a Vulcan,
except that Ben couldn’t shake the paranoid feeling that the man was laughing at him behind his
eyes. “Then, sir, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to remove your trousers.”

“Remove my—are you kidding me?”

“No, sir. Regrettably, it is a necessary security precaution. We have a side room here you can
use. We’ll have to call for witnesses and a video crew.”

“What!”

“Just to document that the proper procedures were followed. Can’t be too careful, you know.
Frivolous lawsuits costs the taxpayers billions of dollars each year.”

“And how long will this take?”

“Oh . . . probably no more than half an hour. An hour at most.”

“I have an appointment with Senator Glancy. I’m expected.”

“Can’t be helped. Security first, that’s our motto. Now if you’ll just step inside this room,
there are some forms—”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” With one angry flick of his wrist, Ben unfastened the button on his
pleated slacks and released the zipper. The slacks fell in a bunch to the floor. Revealing the
tail of his pressed white shirt. And a darling pair of boxer shorts, baby blue, with little red
hearts all over them.

The officer’s stony façade began to crack.

Christina grinned from ear to ear. “Now that’s adorable. Did your mommy buy those for you,
too, Ben?”

“Be. Quiet,” he replied, through clenched teeth.

“I don’t know why he’s being defensive. Do you, Loving?”

The investigator managed to keep a straight face. “No idea.”

“You work with someone for years, you think you know them, and then one day you realize
they’re wearing cutie-pie boxers with little red hearts all over them. Isn’t that
remarkable?”

“What I think is remarkable,” Loving said, “is that this is the first time you’ve seen his
cutie-pie boxers with little red hearts all over them.”

Christina’s smile diminished considerably.

“Here’s the problem, sir,” the officer explained. “Got a button stapled to the inside of the
tail of your shirt. Metal button. Probably came from the store that way, and you never took it
off.”

“Does-that-mean-I-can-put-my-pants-back-on-now?” Ben answered without moving his lips.

“Of course, sir. Appreciate your cooperation.” He laid down the wand and folded his arms. “And
if I may say so, sir, I think those boxers really work for you. Bring out the blue in your
eyes.”

“Thanks so much,” Ben said icily. He pulled up his trousers and grabbed his briefcase, then
rejoined his companions. “Don’t say it,” he warned them. “Don’t say a word.”

“Of course not,” Christina agreed. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Pause. “But man—what a pair of
thighs.” She whistled.

“Christina—!”

“You’re a regular Casanova, what with the sexy hearts and all. Wouldn’t you say he was a
regular Casanova, Loving?”

Loving nodded curtly. “Chick magnet. Big-time.”

“I hope you’re enjoying yourselves,” Ben said, as they reached the central lobby. “Because
when we get back to the office—you’re both fired.”

The generally jocund mood continued, much to Ben’s chagrin, until they were greeted by an
attractive blond teenager wearing a blue suit with a name tag.