Senator Love (23 page)

"Bingo," Fiona whispered. She pressed closer to
the Senator. "Please kiss me," she said.

"Always ready to oblige," he whispered, embracing
her, pressing his lips against hers. A moment later, he was offering his
tongue. Despite her presence of mind and the duty that demanded her attention,
she lost the battle to resist. She opened her lips. Act, she begged herself.
Don't think.

He rubbed against her, his erection obvious and, it seemed,
too determined for comfort. Her pelvis tried to retreat, but he was persistent,
grinding against her. Eye on the ball, Fi, she urged herself, fighting to
attend to business.

She felt his hands caressing her downward, squeezing her
buttocks, then lifting her dress, getting his hands on bare thighs, reaching
around to separate them. Despite her official mission, her professional ethics,
her sense of duty, she felt a desire to surrender to him. She shook her head.

From that distance, Frances might have assumed her eyes
were closed. They weren't. Fiona watched her through tiny slits. The woman
stood there, watching, her face pale and expressionless.

Finally, with a wrenching twist of her head, she forced him
to disengage from the kiss. It took her a moment more to realize that the front
of her dress was waist-high and he was fiddling with his zipper.

"Are you crazy?"

"Just horny."

"No," she said firmly, backing away enough to
lower her dress. She looked up. Frances' glance met hers. But only for a
moment. Her face quickly pulled back and she was gone.

"You asked for realism," the Senator said. He
took out his handkerchief and wiped his lips. She looked up to make sure. Frances
had not returned. But Cates was there again, which embarrassed her. Conduct
unbecoming, she rebuked herself. But she did respond and that was disturbing.

"She saw it all," Fiona said, straightening her
dress, then patting her hair.

"Isn't that what you wanted?" he said.

"Yes," she admitted. "You really got into
the part."

"Yes, I did." He studied her for a moment,
started to say more then became silent.

"Do you believe me now?" she asked.

"You may be onto something," he admitted.
"On the other hand, it might be simple curiosity."

Their eyes met and locked. He shook his head.

"This could be dangerous as hell," he said.
"Especially for you."

"I know my job, Senator," she said.

He followed her up the stairs to the grand ballroom again.
The dance band blared on and they threaded their way through the dancers to
their table.

"She's on the case," Fiona whispered to Monte.
She looked toward Nell and nodded. Nell smiled thinly and Fiona could not chase
the sudden feeling of guilt. The Senator took his seat. He looked pale,
worried.

Frances' observation was no longer surreptitious. It was
blatant, knowing. She turned and again their eyes met. She saw it clearly. The
jealousy, the danger.

"How can you be sure?" Monte asked.

"I saw it. Blood in her eyes."

Monte paused, studied her face.

"It's your blood, Fiona," he said. "
Your
blood."

"NAME OF the game," Sam said, spreading his cards
on the flowered bedspread.

"Got me on a schneid," Fiona said, marking the
score on the little white pad imprinted with the words "Ramada Inn."

"It's another of my special skills," Sam said.
"The way I figure it you owe me more than a hundred thousand dollars. Now
how are we going to work off that debt?"

It was the third of their so-called "trysts" at
the Ramada Inn. They had established a pattern, Tuesdays and Thursdays. They
were into the second week since it had begun and Frances had taken the bait.
Since the dance, she had waited her own vigil and had caught up to them on
Thursday, the second time they had checked into the Ramada.

The modus operandi was for the Senator and Fiona to stay
exactly two hours. Arrive by noon. Leave by two. It was made to appear as a
luncheon rendezvous. Sam would be back in his office before two-thirty.

Fiona had found out that the Senator liked gin rummy and
she had brought a deck of cards. It would, she reasoned, keep his mind off what
apparently was always on his mind. Maybe hers as well. Not maybe. Her
vulnerability was a definite burden.

"I keep telling myself I'm mad to go along with
this," he had told her as they sat in one of the Ramada's rooms the first
time. "Not that the company isn't outstanding."

"Thanks, Senator," she had replied.

"A good exercise in self-discipline," he had
joked, just short of being overly flirtatious. At times he had turned gloomy.
"I'll never forgive myself if anything happens to you."

"Nothing will."

Had he forgiven himself for the others? She did not wish to
probe further on that point. In fact, she wished that she might characterize
him as venal and exploitive, a callous man without feelings or redeeming
qualities. She couldn't. More and more, she thought of him as the victim, a
victim of his own attractiveness.

After the gin game, he had kicked off his shoes and taken
off his jacket and tie, stretching out on the bed, his head resting on his
arms. She sat sideways on the bed, her feet on the floor. She had taken off her
jacket, but not her piece in its shoulder holster. Lifting his hand, he touched
the holster, stroking it.

"Who's to know?" he whispered. It was no secret
between them. There was sexual tension in the room, both of them knew that.

"I would."

"Strike that," he sighed, removing his hand.

"I did."

She picked up the deck and ran a nail down its side. It
made a raspberry sound. He sat up Indian-style while she shuffled the cards.

"I need to know something," he said. She did not
respond, watching him, continuing to shuffle. "If the circumstances were
different..." He stopped, then shrugged.

"They're not," she said. "Besides, such
conduct has already gotten you into lots of hot water."

"I know." He lowered his eyes and sighed.
"It's as if all the ladies are facets of one ideal female. Sometimes I
feel like a surfer looking for the perfect wave."

"Nothing is perfect," she said. She knew what he
meant. She was also a searcher.

"When do you think she'll make her move?" he
asked.

"When she's convinced that this is the real
thing."

"Then she had better not bug this place."

So far Fiona had been on target. They had apparently
tempted Frances into following them. Now the goal was to convince her that this
was an ardent affair. A pattern had been established for its pursuit. There was
a difference, of course. In a desire to keep him out of the loop, they were not
using Bunkie's townhouse. They hoped that Frances would accept the Ramada as a
logical alternative.

They had also established a pattern for getting into the
Inn with discretion. The Senator parked in the most deserted section of the
parking lot, using a car without Senatorial plates. He then went into the side
entrance, where there was a handy pay phone away from public traffic.

Fiona was already in the room, registered under an assumed
name. They had been amusingly creative on that point. She had already been
Theda Bara and Molly Bloom. Today, dealing with the same clerk as the last time
she had checked in, she was Theda Bara again.

The desk clerk, a young man in the early twenties, had not
cracked a smile. She told him she had no credit cards and paid him in cash for
one night's stay, as she had done the previous week.

"A pleasure to have you again, Miss Bara."

"Why, thank you," she had replied.

"Any baggage?" he had asked.

"I can manage," she said, offering a smile.

Cates had followed Frances, who, in turn, had followed the
Senator's car. He reported later that she had stayed patiently in her car,
parking it within view of the Ramada's side lot. She did not leave until the
Senator came out two hours later. That had been Thursday. Today she was
following the same pattern, waiting in her car.

By the very act of following the Senator's movements,
literally spying on them, Frances had established the suggestion, if not the
fact, of her guilt.

Fiona heard a sound in the corridor, got up and looked
through the lens in the door. No one. Then she walked to the drawn blinds and
peeked through the slit where one side met the other. A shaft of sunlight
twinged her eye.

They had given her a room high up, facing the river. This
Ramada was a high rise built on the edge of the Potomac, just beside the flight
path of descending planes at National Airport, a mile down the Mount Vernon
Highway.

The choice of the Virginia side had been deliberate and had
been debated by the eggplant, Cates and herself at length. The idea was to
authenticate the affair in Frances' mind not only as clandestine and illicit
but so intense that chances had to be taken by both participants. They were
careful to use the word participants as a euphemism for lovers, too careful,
collusively careful. They were being deferential to her, avoiding anything that
might embarrass her.

What Cates had also witnessed from the balcony of the Pan
American Building was a passionate embrace. No question about it. Under other
circumstances, another place, her surrender would have been inevitable.
Hazardous duty. Without exactly saying it, she had planted the suggestion that
it was merely playacting, which was only partly true.

Cates had asked her how the Senator and she spent their
time during their mock tryst and she had taken out the deck of cards from her
pocketbook and shuffled the deck.

"Better than watching the soaps," she had told
him.

To his credit, he made no further comment.

"Don't know what's more dangerous. Being holed up in a
motel with that lecher or putting your body in front of that crazy lady."

"I've got the lecher under control," she had
replied, resisting turning to meet Cates' gaze. She was certain he had another
view of that.

By choosing a hotel on the Virginia side, where the MPD had
no jurisdiction, they were also saying that this was the real thing, that this
was not police business. By now, Frances would know she was a police officer.
She would have made discreet inquiries, checked her out, found out about her
big house in the District.

In the days following the ball at the Pan American
Building, everyone involved had been alerted to "watch their tail"
for any signs of Frances. The eggplant had wanted to put Frances under
surveillance by another team of cops, but Fiona had resisted.

"She catches on, the case is blown," Fiona had
argued. "There's too many on it as it is."

The eggplant, still insecure about her making herself a
target, knew she was right and, once again, reluctantly consented. Secretly,
she was certain he still harbored fantasies of the Senator being in his debt.
Indeed, the possibility of Langford becoming President was still a lure, albeit
a fading one.

It was the Senator himself who had spotted Frances. He had
just driven his car out of the Senate garage one evening and had seen her,
suddenly illuminated by a streetlight, following him in her car. He made a
number of redundant turns to make sure she was, indeed, following him, then he
headed for home. It was only when he turned off Nebraska Avenue into the
residential streets of Spring Valley that she veered away.

So she was hooked, stalking him now. The trick had been to
discover the pattern of her surveillance. Generally, he wanted to be home
before the children went to sleep, which was around eight, which meant that he
would leave his office most times around seven-thirty, unless there was an
event to attend.

They had instructed the Senator to begin to take Nell's
car, the one with the unmarked plates, every other day. The logic behind that
was that it would send a message to Frances that he was taking his wife's car
to appear anonymous. More importantly, it was a green Jaguar, distinctive and
easily followed.

Fiona came back to the bed, sat down and began to reshuffle
the cards.

"Do you think she'll ... act today?" Sam asked.
He sat up against the bed's backboard, making a headrest from two pillows.

"We'll know soon enough."

"It doesn't bother you?" he asked.

"Sure it bothers me."

"Are you afraid?"

"Yes. But I have confidence in my ability and my
partner's to prevent such an occurrence."

"You're very brave," he said sincerely, adding,
"It's very tough on Nell, too, All this tension."

"I can imagine."

"And if you do get her to attempt your ... your
demise, what do you really have?"

"Two possibilities. We get her on attempted murder.
That's really not what we want. What we want is a confession."

"Juicy stuff either way. Not exactly a good
image-builder."

"Afraid not."

"I've been wondering if all this was worth it."

"It is if we can prevent her doing this to
others."

"But I can do that," he sighed. "Keep my
nose clean. Stop fooling around. Be satisfied." He looked at her and
sighed. "You know, I really care about Nell, the kids. Fact is they're
beginning to mean more to me than politics."

I've heard that before, she thought, remembering how
politics had absorbed her father's entire life.

"Sure," she said with a light touch of sarcasm.

"I keep wondering what my real motives were for
getting into it in the first place." He paused, grew reflective.

The Power and the Glory,
she
thought, but said nothing.

"I told myself," he continued, "that I
wanted to make a contribution, help others, give of myself. I was dead certain
I was an idealist." He looked at her. She was sitting beside him and he
put his hand on hers. She did not pull it away. A brotherly gesture, she
decided. They had become friends. Why not? "I'm not sure anymore."

"My father used to say, It's important for your heart
to be in the right place."

"Meaning what?"

"He never quite explained it. But what I think he
meant was that you had to believe you were helping others, making sure that the
pie was shared equitably so that everybody had a running head start. Then
showing some compassion for the losers. He said you couldn't be a really good
politician or leader unless you had the common touch."

The memory of her father had kindled something deep inside
of her. She saw his sweet Irish face, the good smell and feel of him.

Sam was silent for a long time. He continued to hold her
hand.

"Sometimes," Sam said, "I feel
corrupt." He shot her a glance, and absently picked up her hand and kissed
it. "Not material-greed corrupt. Never that. Besides, Nell has plenty of
money. Never was my bag anyway. I mean selling-my-soul kind of corrupt. The
thing I wrestle with is ... well ... I hope you don't mind." Again he
kissed her hand. "Not that I'm worthy. Not that I don't have the skills.
The thing..." He turned and looked into her eyes. She had no doubt about
his sincerity. "...The thing I have to decide within myself is ... Am I a
good man? Not a perfect man. A
good
man."

"Like my father said, Is your heart in the right place?"

"But politics makes you devious. You have to be
devious to get elected. That's corrupting."

"I suppose that's true everywhere. Maybe devious is
the wrong word. Maybe you mean finding a strategy that works for you."

"To achieve what?"

"To fulfill your aspirations. To be."

He shook his head and his eyes misted as if he were
suddenly caught up in some strong emotion. She sensed the contagion in herself.

"How is it possible to be truly honest?" he
whispered.

"It's a dilemma," she admitted, feeling again something
move deeply within her.

He gently pulled her hand and her body followed. He put his
lips on hers, exploring gently, then opened his mouth. She yielded, taking his
tongue. He continued to be gentle and unaggressive. But not tentative. When he
disengaged his lips, he whispered in her ear.

"You think we can deal with this, Fiona?"

"Only if we do our Dear-Johns and -Janes in advance.
When it's over, it's over."

He opened the top button of her blouse. She started to
finish the job, reaching to remove her holster.

"Leave it," he whispered.

She did not question the idea. He watched her as she
removed her blouse, leaving the holster, then her brassiere. Her breasts fell
free. She felt good letting him watch her. He reached out and gently touched
her nipples.

"I think women in general are the most wonderful
creatures on earth," he said as he removed his shirt.

"I think that's the heart of it, Sam," she
whispered. "Women know. They sense how you feel and it attracts them
enormously. That's your secret, Sam." And here I am responding to it, she
thought, without shame, tapping into it, feeling the joy of it.