Flashpoint (4 page)

‘Maddy's in a play at Northwestern,' Elise said. ‘She wasn't sure she could get away to be here.'

‘I have a very tiny part. Two lines. They didn't miss me at all.'

Elise was downright bubbly. ‘No wonder you and Dev get along. Trying to give either of you a compliment is impossible.'

Maddy laughed. ‘I'll take any compliment you want to give me.'

There are many worse fates than sitting at a table with three attractive women. The waiter came by, we all ordered drinks and Caitlin, Maddy and I talked about how well the night was going while Elise, of course, scouted the territory for sight of her husband. The brief joy she'd shown with Maddy was long gone; I could see the tension in her shoulders and jaw line. Terrible suspicions would be crackling through her mind like summer lightning illuminating her worst fears.

And you had to give the dark gods their sense of humor, because as a group of people retreated from the dance floor after another song ended, there stood the senator and a woman who looked oddly familiar to me. Then I recognized her. The mystery woman who'd stood at the back of the gym during the town hall meeting eleven days ago.

‘It's her again, Caitlin.' The desperation was back in Elise's voice.

Maddy clutched her arm. ‘It's all right, Mom. He's just talking to her – whoever she is. That's all.'

Caitlin shrugged pretty shoulders. ‘This is the fifth time she's shown up at our recent events. The last two times she's managed to talk to the senator. He says he doesn't even know her name.'

I didn't like any of this. An elected official, from small town council member to president of the United States, is a target for so many people with bad intent. There's always the possibility that the other side is setting a trap for you or that the very ordinary-looking person wishing you well is actually an assassin who managed to slip a weapon past security.

‘I'll be right back,' I said, already on my feet.

The two of them stood just outside the shadows of the dance floor. In the lighted area, which was at least three-fourths of the ballroom, people were sedately partying. You didn't see a lot of ladies ripping off their clothes and dancing on tables at fundraisers, though something like that would be more than welcome on nights when the speeches were interminable.

The closer I got the more I realized that she was not quite human. She was a fashion magazine icon pretending to be flesh and blood. She had been cleaned, painted and dressed to please one of those photographers who are more famous than the women they shoot. In her shiny black dress her perfect body was almost a match for her perfect face. But nothing could quite match it. God had been in a very good mood the day He'd created her.

She sensed me before Robert did and was already luring me to her before he turned to watch me close in on them.

Five times at the senator's recent events. She was wrong in every way. Before Robert could say anything I reached out, took her hand and said, ‘The senator needs to go back to his table, so how about having this dance with me?'

For just a moment consternation shone in those blue eyes; she knew she was in some kind of trouble but it had come on so quickly she hadn't been able to prepare for combat. Then, ‘Why, of course. I'd never turn down a handsome man.' To Robert, ‘It was so nice seeing you again, Senator. My group really appreciates everything you've done for women's rights.'

‘Senator, your wife and daughter asked me to ask you if you'd come back to your table. Your daughter wants to tell you about the play she's in.'

Robert, confused, embarrassed and angry, said, ‘It was very nice seeing you again.' Then to me, restraining himself with great effort: ‘I'll talk to you later, my friend. Be prepared.'

Then he stalked off.

She was a pro for sure. She was already sliding her arm around my waist as she said, ‘He's bigger than you are. Think you could beat him up?'

‘I have an agreement with my clients. I don't beat them up unless they don't pay their bills.'

‘You're a practical man. Good common sense.'

‘So just who the hell are you?'

A faux Southern accent. ‘I do declare, Mr Conrad, that you just might give me the vapors. I like strong, tough men.'

She knew my name, meaning that she would also know everything else about me.

‘Your name.'

‘Tracy Cabot. See, I'm easy.'

‘And you do what?'

‘Are you going to beat me up if I don't tell you?' At least she'd dropped the accent.

‘And you do what, Tracy?'

‘Oh, you're no fun.' And then she brought us together in a most pleasing way and as we held each other, the feel and shape of her body forced me to close my eyes for a time and just enjoy the touch and smell and urgency of her. She led me onto the dance floor and we danced.

‘Now, see, isn't that better?' She was having fun with the dumb guy. Give him an erection and he was your slave.

‘Who do you work for?'

‘Would you really expect me to tell you?'

‘No. But at least we're cutting through the bullshit. I don't want you around the senator anymore.'

‘Jealous? Want him for yourself?'

‘I want him to win. That means avoiding any setups.'

‘Maybe you haven't heard. Women can vote now. They also have the right to go to political events and support their candidates.'

‘You must have quite the job. You have free time to track the senator all over the state. He was upstate the night before last and way downstate last night. And here you are now in Chicago.'

‘That's another thing you mustn't have heard about yet. They're called airplanes. And sometimes women who have the right to vote ride those airplanes when they want to go somewhere.'

‘All I care about is that we understand each other. I don't want you around the senator anymore. Period.'

She started to say something but I eased myself out of her clutches and started walking briskly back toward our table. I didn't look to see how she was handling the unthinkable situation of somebody dumping her on a dance floor. Her irritating Southern accent came back to me; if being dumped on a dance floor didn't give her the vapors nothing would.

The table was as cold and silent as a mausoleum. Caitlin was the only one who looked at me. She was tense and unhappy. Maddy held her mother's hand and Robert scowled off into the distance. As subtly as I could I signaled Caitlin with a head nod.

‘Would anybody like to go to the ladies' room with me?' she said.

‘That sounds like a good idea,' Maddy said with a fraudulent smile. ‘C'mon, Mom.'

The way she helped Elise up reminded me of the time I'd spent with my father in his last days. I'd held on to him even when he just wanted to cross the room. But Elise was only forty-two and as far as I knew in good health.

After they left, Robert said, ‘I should fire your ass.'

‘Go ahead and fire me. I don't like working for morons, anyway.'

‘What the hell's that supposed to mean?'

We both knew we had to keep our voices low and our body language friendly.

‘This Tracy Cabot is following you all over the state. You've no doubt been photographed together at least three or four times when she comes up to talk to you. Right there's a story.'

‘What story?'

‘A beautiful, mysterious woman in three or four different outfits photographed next to the sitting senator seeking re-election. I'm surprised nobody's picked it up yet.'

‘Nobody cares.'

‘Elise cares.'

His cheeks became a deep red. ‘My wife is none of your goddamned business.'

‘And I care even if you don't. The woman is a plant. How can you not see that?'

‘The woman is an admirer and nothing else.'

‘Robert, you've been in politics quite a while now. You know how this works. The other side sets out all kinds of traps. And you're walking right into one.'

‘Bullshit. She's just a woman with some money who appreciates how I vote on women's issues.'

‘Have you ever been alone with her?'

He had to take the bullet between the eyes before he could speak. ‘What the hell? What kind of question is that?'

‘A simple one. Have you ever been alone with her?'

‘Of course not. I don't play around. You know that.'

For now I had to let the lie go, ludicrous as it was. The list was long of elected officials who toted their mistresses and girlfriends along on the campaign trail. The ladies usually had protective meaningless titles to explain their presence. But I didn't expect Her Highness Tracy Cabot to have a cover story that mundane.

The waiter took our order for a couple more drinks and we sat there not talking while we waited for them. Not talking to each other, I should have said. The senator had to play senator for his admirers, some of whom were starting the procession home. I wondered if he was as tired as I was. The situation with the Cabot woman and the confrontation with Robert had ground me down. I was still worried about Tracy Cabot. One thing I'd learned as an investigator was that a good share of the time your instinctive response to a situation was correct. And this whole thing just felt bad. Maybe very bad.

When the women came back, Maddy said, ‘Mom wants to go home, Dad.'

‘Of course, honey. Let's go.' He started toward Elise but her look stopped him. ‘We'll see you later, Caitlin.'

Their departure happened quickly, so quickly that he only had time to snap at me, ‘My brother knows a consultant who could start work tomorrow morning. You'd better keep that in mind.'

As we watched them make their slow way through admirers, Caitlin said, ‘You must have really pissed him off.'

‘I did.'

‘That woman?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘I warned him about her. He told me it wasn't any of my business.'

‘He told me that he's never been alone with her.'

‘Wow. You asked him that?'

‘Yeah.'

‘You believe him?'

‘I want to,' I said. ‘I really do.'

I
admit to being single-minded; selfish if you insist. My first thought seeing Tracy Cabot lying twisted on the floor four days after my run in with her was nothing as noble as a human life had been wasted. No, my first thought was
There goes the election.
I could justify this by saying that the party and thus the country needed this seat. That if one more representative of the Tea Party gets into the Senate the average American will grow ever closer to living in poverty. We will be on our way to oligarchy. So you could – could if you were being kind – see my first response as somewhat noble. But who would be that foolish?

She was dressed in a red silk blouse, stylish jeans and three-inch black heels. She hadn't come out here to go hiking.

The wound hadn't bled that much; somebody had hit her with something heavy on the right side of the head. Those dazzling eyes were dulled now and the mouth shaped in the form of an objection. Or curse. The most certain proof of death was the stench. It often is. From the looks of things, she'd been dead since last night.

Very soon the room would be full of police personnel performing forensic investigations of various kinds. There would be a traffic jam of reporters' cars and vans. For now these would all be local. But Chicago wasn't far away and the networks would have people up here within two hours. The circus would be in town and within six hours press from foreign countries already posted here would be striding the midway.

Sex. A senator. A murder. An international orgasm.

I was careful not to touch anything, including her.

The back porch was not only screened in but stuffed with plump comfortable furnishings, a dry bar and a corner packed with fishing gear. You could sit here and watch the sunset with all the melancholy sights and sounds of the dying day and share it like a prayer with your wife or lover. The best days of my marriage had been like that, that kind of shared peace and unspoken love.

But as I stared at it now I remembered for the first time that on the other side of the hill, maybe six or seven miles away, was the Logan family mansion. Civilization was only ten minutes away.

I looked for signs of a struggle and found one easily – a small bronze statue of Jack Kennedy. The upper portion was lurid with blood and hair.

My eyes found her again.

In most cases I would have wondered about her. Not as a character assassin paid by somebody to take down a damned dumb senator, but as a person, because behind the beauty and the expensive work – in natural light, without the heavy make-up, I could see that she'd had some done on her nose and cheeks – there had been a person of some kind. Somebody's daughter – maybe even somebody's mother, though that seemed unlikely. I'd wanted to bust her ass and then shove her in the face of her masters but I hadn't wanted – nor certainly expected – this. Not this at all.

There was nothing else for me there so I went back to where Robert sat in a leather chair before the great dead fireplace. His right hand held a tall, clear glass that appeared to be filled with bourbon.

‘Go easy on that. We need to call the police.'

‘Oh, this'll be great, won't it?'

‘Robert, you lied to me. You were involved with her.'

‘No, damn it, not the way you say. We never had real sex.'

Just what I needed. I was in the company of Bill Clinton, Jr. We were going to parse words.

‘Hand job? Blow job? What the hell are we talking about here, Robert?'

He stupidly gunned his drink then shook his head miserably. ‘We, uh, laid naked together one night but nothing happened.'

‘You both had a religious conversion at the same moment?'

‘Fuck yourself, Dev.'

‘I need answers, Robert. We need to call the police and we need to get Zuckerman up here.' Ben Zuckerman was the go-to criminal lawyer for our side in Chicago. He was a master.