Fair Game (20 page)

He parked his car and walked up the path to his door, unlocking it and switching on the overhead light automatically. His place was a typical bachelor pad, nothing extraordinary, light on decor and heavy on the items important to him: stereo speakers, stacks of tapes and records, books on police procedure, history, and athletics. He went into the bedroom in the dark, stretched out on the king-sized bed—a luxury he considered a necessity because of his height—still wearing his jacket, and folded his arms behind his head.

He hadn’t felt this way in twenty years. No, that wasn’t true. He had never felt like this. He’d been proud of Maryann, proud of their status as a couple, because she was pretty and popular and a girl the other guys admired. They seemed to belong together: she was captain of the color guard and he was a running back on the football team. They looked good in pictures, he so tall and dark, she with the same height and coloring, like matched bookends. He had let it all happen, cruising along without effort through the pins and the prom and the rings. He had liked Maryann, loved her dearly in a way that he now realized was boyish and as much a part of his youth as the high jump he could no longer scale. But the consuming passion he felt for Ashley, the jealous possessiveness that made him want to knock Dillon down every time the lawyer looked at her, the need to protect her from everything and everybody and have her with him at all times, was new.

Capo was right. It was the thunderbolt, the exquisitely apt Sicilian expression for the stroke of Cupid’s arrow, the instant and irrevocable wound of love.

Martin sat up and tore off his jacket, dropping it, with the sleeves inside out, onto the floor. He lay back down and rolled over on his side, hoping for sleep.

* * * *

Ashley crept up the steps from the cabin below decks and leaned over the railing of the
Fair Play
, letting the cool night breeze wash over her face. The water lapped gently against the hull as she pulled the collar of her robe closer about her neck and tightened the belt, snuggling into its warmth.

Dillon was asleep. She had pleaded illness and pretended to rest in the guest cabin until he drifted off himself.

It was only a matter of time, she thought now. She couldn’t hold him off forever, and the prospect of engaging in more debates on the subject made her want to jump overboard.

What was the right thing to do? She was truly fond of Jim and didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but surely it was wrong to let him continue planning for something that she was increasingly convinced would never be.

There was a sound from below decks, and she closed her eyes.

“Ashley?” Dillon called.

“Up here.”

He clambered up the steps, wearing only a faded pair of running shorts. She noted with detachment his finely tuned body, his charmingly tousled hair.

“What are you doing out here by yourself?” he asked.

“Just getting a breath of air.”

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“I thought you were.”

“I must have heard you walking past my cabin and it woke me up.” He came up behind her and put his arms around her waist. “Feeling better?”

“Um-hm.”

“Want to go below and sleep with me this time?” he whispered, kissing her neck.

Ashley stiffened, and he released her.

“Ash, what is it? You’ve been acting weird all day, since I picked you up this morning.”

“I’m just tired, Jim. I’ve been keeping a pretty hectic schedule. You can understand that.”

“Do you think you should take some time off from the campaign, drop out for a while and rest?”

“Oh, no, it’s not that bad. I’ll get over it. I just think I should go back to bed. Alone.”

“All right,” he said, sighing. “Let’s do it.” They went below, and Dillon went back into the master cabin, while Ashley slipped into the guest-room bunk.

In seconds the boat was silent again, leaving Ashley to her troubled thoughts.

* * * *

On Sunday night, the
Fair Play
was lit up like the Lincoln Memorial when Martin and Capo approached it. A huge striped circus like tent was set up on the dock where it was moored, and workers were proceeding in and out of the tent with pieces of furniture wrapped in padding and canvases wrapped in brown paper and cushioned with Styrofoam.

“Gee, do you think I’ll get to feed the elephants?” Capo said to Martin as they paused in the opening created by the lifted flaps. Inside, rows of folding chairs faced a makeshift stage with a podium and a canvas backdrop.

“You think these people would just rent an auditorium,” Capo said disgustedly. “What are we doing down here on the docks?”

“You’re not a bored millionaire,” Martin replied. “They’re always trying to outdo each other in originality. This is original.”

“I’ll grant you that. Ringling Brothers wouldn’t have had this thing; it’s too small, and the stripes are blue instead of red.”

“A circus purist, Tony?”

Capo shot him a look and said, “We’d better get on the boat. They must be about ready.”

They were met at the end of the dock by a uniformed crewman who checked their badges and then revealed himself to be a member of the harbor police.

“Welcome aboard,” he said, stepping aside.

“Welcome aboard?” Capo muttered to Martin. “What is this, McHale’s Navy?”

The yacht was fitted with amber teakwood and gleaming brass. Ashley and her father were waiting in the main salon, which had an oversized gray and black rug with a geometrical border design spread on the floor and frosted-glass art deco lamps on the walls. Martin realized that the room had undoubtedly been done by a high-priced decorator, but to him the place had a cold, stylized feel, not Ashley at all.

But it did look like the Senator’s wife.

Ashley was wearing a strapless blue cocktail dress with a fitted bodice and bell-shaped skirt. Martin had not seen it before; it made her look sophisticated, older than she was. Even though she was beautiful, he realized that seeing her this way disturbed him. It made her seem part of the world her relatives inhabited, and more remote from him.

Ashley turned, and her face lit up when she saw him. She left her father and came to the two cops, saying, “Tim.”

He looked down at her, not smiling, but his gaze was intimate all the same.

“Hi,” he said.

“How was your time off?” she asked, never taking her eyes from his face.

“Dull,” he replied.

“Not relaxing?”

“I guess dull qualifies for relaxing,” he answered. “Did you clear up the problem with your father’s record?”

She smiled cynically. “Yes. My father’s staff found something just as bad on the opposition side, and we traded dirt. So the final word is nobody’s saying anything in either camp.”

“Remember me?” Capo asked dryly at Martin’s side.

Ashley laughed. “And the irrepressible Sergeant Capo. How was your family?”

“Still there.”

“I’m sure they were very glad to see you.”

“Seemed like it,” he said, and grinned.

“Ashley,” her father called from across the room, “somebody is here to see you.”

She turned, and they all saw a slim, dark, elegantly handsome man in a well-cut suit smiling at her.

“Carlo,” she said, and went to take his hands. She kissed him on the cheek.

“Carlo?” Capo said in a low tone to Martin. “Are you telling me she has another boyfriend? The competition’s getting stiffer, Timmo.”

“Shut up,” Martin muttered savagely.

Ashley chattered away to her friend, and they were soon joined by Meg and the Senator’s wife. Drinks were served by a uniformed maid, and the two policemen faded into the background. It was some time before Ashley walked past with Carlo, and then stopped abruptly, taking him by the hand to the corner where Martin stood.

“Tim, I’d like you to meet Giancarlo Deslourdes, my favorite designer. He saw you from across the room and requested an introduction. He whipped up the dress I’m wearing just for me.”

Martin shook hands with the couturier, who assessed him with worldly dark eyes.

“Darling, he’s prettier than the dress,” Carlo drawled to Ashley.

Martin stiffened.

“Oh, look, he’s getting nervous,” Carlo said. “Ash, I’m so grateful; you’ve made my night. Now I’m going over to the tent, where I will try to recover from this sensational experience. I’ll see you there. And let me know what you think of the scent.”

“I will,” she said.

He winked at Martin. “Take care, handsome.”

He left, and Martin fixed Ashley with a narrow, gimlet stare. “Thanks a lot.”

She giggled wickedly. “He wanted to meet you.”

“Why didn’t you ask me if I wanted to meet him?”

“Oh, he’s all right. An opportunist in the business sense, but generally harmless.”

“Not to twelve-year-old boys, I’ll bet.”

She shook her head. “You’re such a cop. Every minute, all the time. I don’t judge anyone else’s personal life. Besides, Carlo confines his pursuits to those beyond the age of consent.”

“That’s what they all say,” Martin observed darkly. “Until you find them with a stable full of kidnapped fourth-graders posing for porno films.”

Her mouth tightened. “Mr. Straight Arrow,” she said flatly.

“You got it. And what was the ‘scent’ he was talking about?”

“He created a new perfume for me.” She held up her wrist for him to sniff the sample.

He bent his head. “I like your old one better,” he said quietly, straightening, his senses reeling from the almost contact with her skin.

She held his gaze. “Thank you.”

“How do you create a perfume?” he asked dryly to dispel the mood; there were too many observers. “In the same way God created the heaven and the earth in seven days?”

“That isn’t very funny. It’s quite an honor to have exclusive use of it during the trial period.”

“What’s it called?”

“Tristesse.”

Martin’s expression changed, and he looked down at her seriously. “Sadness?” he said, translating. “He named a perfume for you and he called it ‘sadness’?”

“I don’t think he named it for me,” she said uncomfortably, aware of what he was thinking. “That was the name he had in mind before he asked me to wear it. He says it best expresses the scent’s haunting, evocative quality. And ‘tristesse’ doesn’t mean sadness, exactly.”

“I took high school French,” Martin said flatly. “That’s just what it means.”

She shook her head. “It’s more a sense of loneliness, a longing for fulfillment.” She stopped suddenly, realizing that she was making things worse.

He was watching her closely.

“Excuse me,” she blurted. “I just saw Jim.” She fled, leaving Martin to stare after her in consternation.

The salon was filling fast, and at eight o’clock a crew member stepped into the room and struck a triangular chime to indicate that it was time to adjourn to the tent. The group filed out, moving along the dock to the scene of the auction.

Quite a bit of the audience was already in place, and there was light applause when the Senator entered with his entourage. When they were seated, the auctioneer ascended the stage and took his place at the podium. There was a rustling of programs as people consulted the listing of antiques and art works to be sold, all donated by friends of the Senator. The proceeds would be split between the Save the Children Foundation, one of his favorite charities, and his campaign fund, with the former taking the lion’s share.

Martin moved up close to the stage, behind the woman preparing to take phone bids at a small side table. Ashley was only a few feet away, sitting with Dillon on the aisle.

The auctioneer made the standard introductions, and then cleared his throat to say, “Our first item up for bid is a Wyeth from the Helga series, which you all know caused a sensation in the art world when it was discovered. This was donated by the artist himself, and it goes without mention that...”

Martin tuned out, glancing around at the crowd, who all seemed absorbed in what the auctioneer was saying.

Capo sidled up next to him and said, “Some show, huh?”

Martin nodded. They watched the audience react to the auctioneer’s prodding, lifting discreet fingers or signaling with their programs to indicate a bid.

“A subdued group,” Capo observed. “The auctions my wife goes to, you can’t hear the bids for the screaming. Of course, they’re usually auctioning off stuff like ceramic flamingos for the front lawn, so I guess it’s understandable.”

Capo seemed to find the auction interesting for a while, but as it became repetitive, proceeding through the art to the furniture, his restlessness increased.

“What’s a Queen Anne lowboy?” Capo asked Martin as the item was announced.

“That,” Martin replied, indicating the waist-high chest with gracefully curved legs that appeared on the stage.

“Would you pay that for it?” Capo asked as the auctioneer set the opening bid.