Senator Love (12 page)

"Okay, then. But please. Just the lady.
One-on-one."

Fiona hesitated, reluctant to comment. The ploy was too
obvious, laughable. Throw him a female. He'd have her bamboozled in the blink
of an eye.

"It's the best way," Bunkie pleaded. "Too
many of us will spook him."

Fiona weighed the offer. She'd danced with the man. Now she
remembered her reaction. Nevertheless, she resented the implication.

"I know him, Sergeant FitzGerald," Bunkie said.
"He couldn't kill anybody. He's innocent on this. We're all bystanders
here."

"Settle down, Farrington," Fiona said. "If
we reaffirm both your alibis you could be in the clear. Fact is, it has to be
done."

He looked pitiful, but she felt no sympathy. They were
clever, these bastards. They could fawn on cue. She looked at Cates.

"Any objection?" she asked.

Both she and Cates knew the question was solely for effect.
It was one of the hallmarks of their partnership that they both check their ego
at the squad-room door. The name of their game was detecting, finding the bad
guys, not gratifying their egos.

"Hereby registered," Cates answered, also for
effect. Then he stood up and began to move away. She hurried after him until
they were out of earshot of Monte and Bunkie.

"Pappas is okay, but the other guy stinks to high
heaven."

Quick to judgement, she thought suddenly. Could she strike
Monte off the list so cavalierly, despite Monte's own protestations? As if in
counterpoint to her thoughts, Cates continued.

"People who want things badly enough are capable of
anything." He paused and his voice dropped a few decibels.
"Especially politicians."

"For a comparative newcomer to this town, I'd say
that's pretty cynical."

"Bad attitude, right?"

"It does cut into your objectivity," Fiona said.
Not that her objectivity remained pristine.
Do as I say, not as I do,
she cautioned him silently.

"I have a confession then," Cates said. She
braced herself for the revelation. Sometimes, she knew, things had to be
articulated to make sense of one's thoughts.

"I'd love Farrington to be the one," Cates said.
"Shifty bugger."

"That's called emotional involvement," she
replied with a touch of rebuke in her tone.

"I know."

"Objectivity means keeping all of our options open. At
this stage everybody is fair game. Everybody remains a suspect. Everybody. We
call that an open mind, Cates." She smiled, taking the sting out of the
admonishment. "Consider yourself spanked."

He shrugged and offered a thin smile.

"For my own good, right, Fi?"

"Right."

They had, she knew, picked up the investigatory rhythm of
the case, moving now in perfect tandem, thinking in synch, communicating in
their own special shorthand.

"I'll also follow up on the real estate. Touch base
later."

"And I'll duck the eggplant until we catch up. We'll
pull it together before the meeting."

He nodded and started to move away, stopped suddenly and
turned.

"What was that old movie expression? Yeah." He
nodded. "Keep your powder dry." He was being cryptic, but she knew
his meaning. He was genuinely worried.

"It's okay, Cates. I'll keep my legs crossed."

His lips curled upward, not quite a smile. With one finger
he waved goodbye and she watched him move swiftly down the corridor. Then she
moved back to where Bunkie and Pappas were waiting.

"We're wasting time," she said.

IN THE labyrinthine underground corridors of the Capitol
there are about fifty private suites reserved for the use of Senators.
Allocation of these suites is based on seniority. Fiona's father had one. Once
the Senator invited a group of her friends to celebrate her birthday in his.
Her father claimed that he used it more for "thinking things out"
than anything else.

Later, when she grew more sophisticated, she learned that
they had other, more varied uses.

The suites are, in fact, one of the most sought-after of
all Senatorial perks, private hideaways complete with kitchen facilities,
showers and bathrooms. Many of them are arranged as living room/dining room
combinations. Some are elaborately decorated. Most are equipped with some form
of sleeping accommodations, although their prime intention is not for use as an
overnight facility.

Over the years Senators have used these suites for
entertaining constituents or colleagues at private cocktail parties, buffet
lunches or sit-down dinners. Others have used them as retreats from the rigid
and often exhausting legislative routine. Some Senators have used them for
afternoon naps, or to cater to some dark and dangerous addiction far from the public
eye, like alcohol, for example. Some have used them solely for recreation, like
playing poker or gin rummy, or listening to their favorite soap opera or
ballgame. One Senator, Fiona's father once told her, was known to set up his
easel in one of these suites, strip to the buff, and blithely paint canvases of
serene landscapes.

At times they were used for sexual trysts. That went
without saying. It had its dangers, of course. Access could be monitored by
those with sinister purposes. It was not the place for more serious sexual
encounters, but it did function as a place for, as they say, sport fucking
between Senators and the more round-heeled members of his or her staff.

These suites were, of course, not well publicized, and,
Fiona suspected, there seemed to be a general truce between Senators and media
to leave the subject in limbo unless their use was so compelling or scandalous
that nothing could stop the revelation.

Bunkie had ducked into another empty committee room to use
the phone.

"A real hardhead," Monte said when he had gone.
"But a human shield."

"Fanatics make me queasy," Fiona said.

"But it does look as if you can put your suspicions to
rest."

"Not yet," Fiona said. Far from it, she thought,
but she did not wish to alarm him. The connections these people had with the
dead woman were too involved to be dismissed so cavalierly.

Monte moved toward her, held her by the shoulders then drew
her closer.

"Thanks for this," he said, kissing her.
"Trust is a rare commodity."

"Very," she agreed. Although she was trained to
be wary, Monte's presence and character did not disturb her comfort level. She
allowed their kiss to linger. Finally she pushed him away, offering the light
humor of a time-honored cliché. "I'm on duty, Monte."

They parted just as Bunkie strode through the door. She
could tell that he had seen, but he said nothing.

"He's less than happy," Bunkie said.

Fiona said nothing and followed him again through the
corridors. At the end of one corridor they came to an elevator, got in and went
to a lower level. They traversed more corridors. Sometimes Bunkie or Monte
waved to people along the way. She remembered these labyrinthine corridors from
her childhood. It had always seemed so self-contained, a world unto itself.

The corridors grew more deserted as they continued, and
finally, after a series of turns, they stopped in front of a large polished
door. Bunkie knocked three times, then waited. They heard a buzz.

"Go in," Bunkie said. "We'll get a cup of
coffee and meet you in an hour."

"Good luck," Monte said.

"You'll see," Bunkie added. "There won't be
any reason for you to be suspicious. We're not without our faults. But we don't
do murder."

Sam Langford was sitting in his shirtsleeves on a large
easy chair, his feet on a hassock. A standing lamp threw light on a pile of
papers that he was reading. He put them aside and stood up, showing a broad
dimpled smile. His wavy, prematurely greying hair fell carelessly over his
forehead. When he got closer she could see his blue eyes, clear and remarkably untroubled,
considering all the angst that had to be endured for her to get here.

"Very happy to see you again ... is it Fiona?"

She nodded, responding to his outstretched hand. He took
hers gently. At first it felt soft, devoid of pressure. Then it firmed. His
touch was insinuating, enveloping. He did have an aura, Fiona thought. She
remembered how she had felt held in his arms, dancing.

There was no denying it. The man had sex appeal. Worse, he
knew it.

In a sweeping gaze, she took in the room. It looked much
like the living room of a well-appointed home. It was filled with what appeared
to be antiques or repros. There was a polished mahogany dining table on one
side of the room and eight side chairs. In front of the upholstered chair in
which the Senator sat was a couch. Also in the conversational setting around a
large, highly polished, dark wood cocktail table were two deep leather wing
chairs.

A large secretary covered the bulk of one wall, also a tall
clock that she was sure tolled the hour and half hour. On another wall was a
bookcase filled with books. A number of paintings were hung about the place.
One depicted a naval engagement, another scenes of colonial soldiers resting
after battle. There were two pictures of dour men with powdered wigs.

The place had a distinctively historical flavor. In it the
Senator looked, aside from the sex appeal, well ... Senatorial. Perhaps even
Presidential.

"Can I get you anything, Fiona?" he asked,
sweeping his arm around the room. "Everything is here. This is where we
get away from the madding crowd." He smiled again and out came his
dimples. "Well, then make yourself comfortable," he said, pointing to
one of the wing chairs. "I'm so glad we can have this little chat."
He went back to his chair and sat down to study her.

She felt him pouring it on, skewering reality, bringing up
the big guns of his charm and charisma. His clear blue eyes were x-rays
undressing her. Dammit, she berated herself, feeling, despite all caveats, the
thrill of his masculine aggression.

"I know you've already heard about Helga Kessel."

"I can't believe it." He shook his head and his
eyes glinted briefly. Was it the hint of a tear? She couldn't say, but he
seemed to be moved. "We were great friends."

"Yes, great friends," Fiona repeated. It was a
remark meant to be sarcastic, but it seemed almost benign. She had been
momentarily awed into a kind of submission, which deeply interfered with her
normally creative interrogation. Stop this, woman! she rebuked herself.

"Bunkie told me about your conversation the other
night." Midway into the sentence he had to clear his throat as if the
words had stuck.

She nodded.

"You must think I'm pretty bad. Or stupid."

"On that issue I won't make judgments."

"He also said you're a great friend of Monte's and
that you're not here to hurt us." He continued to study her.

"Yes on both scores."

"My first instinct was to duck," he said with
boyish candor, showing the dimples again. "Wait a bit until the smoke
clears. I'm sure you know the drill from your father. I remember reading about
him. I would have loved to have met him. But I came here after he had
retired."

"He didn't retire. He was defeated," Fiona said.
The reference to her father restored her equilibrium. "Anyway, that's not
why I'm here."

"I just wanted you to know that I feel comfortable
here with you, that I trust you, that my first instinct was wrong. Sometimes
politics can get in the way of good sense."

"Always," Fiona said, back on track now. She
watched him bear down on her, his eyes searchlights, inspecting her.

"I don't deny it," he said. "Helga and I
were lovers. We cared a great deal for each other. Unfortunately, I had to make
a choice in my self-interest. The thing about this business ... you become
institutionalized, like a corporation. Large numbers of people depend on you. A
deeply private life can no longer exist." Suddenly he stopped himself.
"Why am I flogging the obvious, telling you what you already know?"

To control the agenda, Sam,
she thought, but did not give voice to it.

"Why didn't you tell her yourself?" Fiona asked.
Subjectively, it was this act, or nonact, of his that she resented most.

"Pure cowardice," he admitted, lowering his eyes
in some clichéd rendition of "shame." Will the real Sam Langford
please stand up? Perhaps he no longer knew who that was?

She watched him, but did not comment. Worse than cowardice,
she told herself.

"The thing is I can't bear to see people hurt."
He paused, waiting for a reaction. When it didn't come he said, "So I'm
not a paragon of virtue. Anyway, I felt relieved when Bunkie reported that she
had taken it like a good soldier. Hell, she knew from the beginning that this
could lead nowhere. We both knew the score." He sighed wistfully.
"However you cut it, though, it was beautiful between us while it lasted.
I'm sure she felt the same way."

"Did you know that Ambassador Kessel was aware of the
affair?"

"That's another thing I didn't bank on. When she told
me, I was in shock. Theirs was, as you already know, a most unusual
relationship."

"And you accepted it?"

"Accept it? No, I didn't accept it. I lived with
it."

"Did Mrs. Langford also know?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course not."

"Suspect? Did she suspect?"

"How can I know that?" he replied testily.
"We have two young children. She's quite a busy woman. It's not easy being
the wife of a Senator."

"How would she react if it came out?"

"Not good, I'm afraid."

"You think it would jeopardize your family as well as
your career?"

"Is the Pope Catholic? Nell is a proud woman. Nothing
would ever be the same, that's for sure."

"So why risk it?"

"Good question, Fiona. You wouldn't be here if that
wasn't the case. It's cheating, pure and simple. Call it a weakness. So I'm an
incurable romantic." He lifted his hand in a traffic cop's gesture.
"I know it's a rationalization. Ten years of therapy might get to the
bottom of it. But, for whatever reason, there it is."

His gaze had drifted. Now he raised his eyes again and met
hers. "It doesn't make me any less of a political leader. In fact, it is a
rather common characteristic, considering what we now know about Jack Kennedy,
Franklin Roosevelt, Dwight Eisenhower and Lyndon Johnson, to name just a
few." His eyes bore down. "I love women, Fiona. And I love being in
love with women. Believe it or not, this has nothing to do with my family. My
wife or kids. It's both a personal problem and a political liability to have
such a propensity. I'm also less than courageous about breaking things off when
it becomes politically necessary. That, I'm afraid, is the full extent of my
venality. I also understand your role as investigator. Indeed, in your place I
would consider myself a suspect, even though, knowing myself as I do, I would
never, ever ... I am constitutionally unable to murder ... indeed, to
physically hurt ... anyone."

He was utterly disarming and passionate in his candor. You
could fool me, she told herself with self-deprecating sarcasm.

"Then you realize why I have to be here, have to probe
this," she said, trying to match his self-effacement, but losing badly.

"Of course."

It was then that she launched into the technical aspects of
her questioning. His answers corroborated what Bunkie had told him, which
relieved her. Her instincts told her that this charming rogue was only a lady
killer in a symbolic sense.

"Are you satisfied, Senator, that Farrington's report
on Helga's reaction to their tête-à-tête is completely accurate?"

Sam Langford rubbed his chin, then tapped his teeth with
his fingers.

"The man has been with me ever since I came here,
first as a Congressman, he was just out of Yale. He can be overbearing at
times, overprotective, hyperdedicated, probably loyal to a fault. He will
deliberately keep me uninformed, especially, like now, if he believes something
will upset me. He will edit out. He will be oblique. Yet, we have our
shorthand. Every successful politician has his Bunkie. He did this thing with
Helga because I trusted him to do it."

"He called it damage-control," Fiona said, noting
how cleverly he had surgically removed himself from Bunkie's excesses.

"Indeed, it is. And I am completely satisfied. Poor
Helga's death had to be the result of circumstances far outside our orbit,
Fiona. Sure, I'd like to keep out of the clutches of the media on this. We both
know it could wipe me out, certainly politically. I've been lucky so far. I'll
admit that. I'm no Gary Hart challenging the media to follow me. In their eyes,
I would be guilty as hell. But I'm"—he smiled, telescoping the humor that
was to come—"off the stuff now. Scared off by my advisors. This episode
with Helga makes it official. No more. It's my latest slogan. Just say
no." He swung his arms in a gesture of rejection. "Finis. Nada.
Verboten." He dimpled his face again. "Anything you can do to help
will, of course, be greatly appreciated. I'm not sure it's possible to keep the
media wolf from the door. I hope it can be done and I won't blame you if you
can't. I happen also to trust Monte's judgement completely. He is the best
political strategist in the business, and that takes the ability to know people
and what makes them tick."

He had the entertainer's ability to hold one's interest.
She quickly cast aside his effusive thank-yous and pressed on. There was more
to test, more to learn.