Senator Love (7 page)

THE LAB confirmed the identity of Betty Taylor through her
dental work. She was sure it would. Indeed, she was certain that the eggplant
knew it would as well. Considering the quid pro quo of the transaction, she
assumed that, if she postponed telling him, her permission to pursue the case
further was automatically extended.

"Madness," Cates said, as she attempted to
explain it.

"Not when you understand the code," she told him.

It was enough to motivate him into a frenzy of
investigatory activity. Once committed, he was a tiger at footwork and a whiz
at details. He went off to the Hill to speak to the staff director of the
committee that had employed Betty Taylor, while she called the District Building to track down the owners of the building in which the young woman had
lived.

She was shifted through a tangle of bureaucratic
ineptitude, from one bored clerk to another, none of whom were intimidated by
her official position.

"All I want to know is who owned the building in the
late seventies."

"I got to check the tax records."

"Isn't there a simple list of property owners?"

"There's a problem with the computer stuff for that
period. We gotta find it by hand."

"How long will that take?"

"It's nearly four."

"So?"

"So I'm off at four."

"You sound like you're off now," Fiona snapped.

"You want me to get your answer or not?"

"Do you realize you're obstructing justice?"
Fiona said. It was the kind of question that telescoped its response.

"Kiss my ass."

"The way you move it that ought to take a week."

Round and round. She hung up in disgust, but with a greater
understanding of the eggplant's fear of being labeled incompetent.

Then she got a call from Monte Pappas.

"What are you doing?" he asked. Although it had
the air of flippancy, she could sense the tightness under the forced levity.

"If you were giving the bureaucracy an enema where
would you put the nozzle?"

"Can I substitute a person and keep the water going
until he explodes?"

"My answer was the District Government. What's
yours?"

Suddenly, all happy-talk pretense evaporated.

"Fi, I've got to see you."

"Nice to be needed."

She retained a lightness, hoping that it had another
connotation. But she knew better.

"More than you think," he said.
"Urgently."

"When?"

"As fast as you can, Fi. Can I pick you up in fifteen
minutes?"

"That bad?"

She looked at the notes on her yellow pad, contemplated the
frustrations ahead of her, regretting now that she had put the wheels in
motion.

"You know where headquarters is. I'll be in
front."

* * *

SHE WAS prompt, but he was already there, his Caddy
glistening from the rain. She had barely opened her umbrella before she had to
close it again. He had swung the door open and she had hopped in.

The rain had turned nasty again, vast sheets angling
against the windshield, winning the battle against the wipers. The grey skies
were darkening into night.

"Hope you got your ark ready, Monte," Fiona
quipped. His mood was gloomy, but he managed a polite grunt of acknowledgment.
He made a sharp turn into the tunnel heading for Capitol Hill.

"I appreciate this, Fiona," he muttered. In
profile he seemed to be biting his lower lip.

"What are friends for?" she said, hoping that the
light touch wasn't off-putting. It didn't matter. He seemed to be ignoring it,
lost in his own thoughts. She let him brood. Finally he spoke.

"I don't know how to handle this, Fi," Monte
said. He took one hand off the steering wheel and gripped her arm. "It's
your expertise."

"So far it's an endless prologue," she said.

"There's something else." He cleared his throat.
"I need your word on this. Complete silence. No one."

She thought about that for a moment and searched for a way
to say it.

"I render unto Caesar."

He nodded as if he understood. Then he seemed to be mulling
it. "Fair enough," he said. He rubbed the back of his hand against
his mouth.

"She's disappeared," he said, shaking his head.
They were out of the tunnel and into the rain again, heading in the direction
of the Capitol dome, lit now, a welcoming beacon in the downpour.

"Who?"

"Helga Kessel, wife of the Austrian Ambassador."

"The beautiful Helga, mistress of Senator Love."

Again, he ignored the attempt at a lighter touch. And yet,
the subject matter belied his obvious panic.

"Who needed this?" He shook his head. She had
turned to watch him and he had met her gaze briefly. A headlight illuminated
his troubled eyes. "It was supposed to be all handled. Sam had taken the
pledge. Clear sailing. Then this."

"There's missing and missing," Fiona said.

"I know." He expelled air through his teeth.
"It's bizarre. He ... Sam ... gets this call no more than two hours ago.
The Ambassador himself, Hans Kessel. Remember him?" She nodded. "Says
they should meet at the Dupont Circle subway stop. Something urgent. Sam,
naturally, calls Bunkie, who follows him."

"Not you?"

"I come later. I'm the fireman, you see. When I get to
it, it's already a conflagration." He sucked air through his teeth.
"Assholes."

"So they meet," Fiona prompted. He was obviously
too upset to focus logically. The explanation seemed painful.

"A brief talk. Kessel is panicked. The lady has
vanished. As near as he can see no clothes missing. No notes. Nothing. She had
gone out yesterday. He wasn't sure where. He let it go by one night. Maybe he's
had some experience along these lines. When nearly another day went by, he got
the message."

"Why Sam?"

"He knew. The son-of-a-bitch knew that Sam was
diddling his wife."

"Was he hostile?"

"No. Nor irate. He's a European, if that explains it.
He and Sam have a common cause." He turned toward her. "Not what you
think," Monte sighed. "A morbid fear of embarrassment. He's also a
diddler with political ambitions back in Austria. Takes one to know one."

"Did he have any ideas where the woman might have
gone?"

"None. That's the point. He asked Sam that very same
question."

"So what's the bottom line?" Fiona asked, her
mind spinning with scenarios. Maybe the woman was teasing both of them, scaring
the shit out of both of them, getting even. Fiona could empathize with that.

"You're the bottom line, Fi," Monte said.

The car sped through the rain, turned and proceeded on Independence Avenue.

"We're all way out of our depth. To report this thing
could spell political sudden death for Sam and Kessel. It will come out. That's
a given. Unless we can find some way to keep the lid on." He looked again
toward Fiona. He slapped his chest. "We don't know how it's done."

"You think I do?"

"You're a cop. She's a missing person, for crying out
loud."

"Could be just a game's she's playing."

"Some game."

"She got dumped. She was pissed off. Could be her way
to twist your you-know-whats."

"We wish," Monte sighed. "That kind of pain
we can live with." He grew silent. "But for how long?"

"Longer the better."

"Okay, she was dumped. But this is beyond the pale."

"No it's not."

She tried to soak up the woman's humiliation, calculate the
anger and thirst for vengeance. Unfortunately, she could not sustain the
indignation. The woman was a damned fool to get mixed up with a married
politician. Served her right. The sense of sisterhood faded. Helga was a
diplomat's wife, for chrissakes, she knew the score.

"How was it done?" she asked. "The
Dear-John?"

Suddenly Monte slapped his thigh. The noise startled her.

"A comedy of errors, Fi. Wrong all around. Bunkie
Farrington was the messenger. I swear the morons are in charge. It was
decided." He took his hands off the wheel to use them for emphasis.
"I am equally at fault, knowing Sam's penchant for avoiding scenes. A
sycophant panders, Fi. And it was I who said those immortal words: No more. Cut
it clean, said Bunkie. He had done it before. He said he was good at it. It was
the one time Sam should have done it himself."

"Real class," Fi said, disgusted.

"I think I could have stopped it. Now I pay. You are
my ace card. No. My only card."

He pulled up in front of a townhouse. A man in a raincoat
and hat sprung out of the shadows. She heard the click of car locks and the man
came in the back door of the car.

"You remember Bunkie, Fi," Monte said. Fi turned
and Bunkie grunted a response.

"Not my idea," he mumbled.

"Bunkie is hostile, Fi," Monte said.

"It grows," Bunkie said. "In this town,
knowledge expands geometrically."

Monte drove toward the Potomac, ducked under the highway,
then found a parking space on Main Avenue. The rain had thinned out the tourist
traffic and the dinner crowd had not yet begun to descend on the wall-to-wall
restaurants along the river. They sat in the car, motor running, the rain
pelting the roof and windshield.

"We're all going to drown anyway," Bunkie said
gloomily.

"It was Bunkie here who was the last of our group to
see the lady."

"No big deal. We met for cocktails at the
Ritz-Carlton. She was already primed. I merely read her the drill. She said she
understood."

"She wasn't upset that the Senator wasn't there to
convey the sad news?"

"She said she wished it would have gone that way, but
that she understood. This is no kid. She's in the game. I told her the Senator
was running for President, for crying out loud. She was a liability and she
knew it. I told her the Senator was broken up about it, but had to make this
decision. Went smooth as silk. She was cool."

"Just like that. No emotion?" Fiona asked.

"She's a diplomat's wife. She wasn't a receptionist or
some dumb cunt in the typing pool. She had a mind."

"I'm glad one of you did," Monte muttered.

"We were clean on this. I did a surgeon's job. I know
it."

"How do you read it then?" Fiona asked.

She had turned slightly in the front seat to see him, but
his features were undefined. His shoulders moved, a gesture of frustration and
confusion.

"She thought it over. Looked at what she had and what
she had just lost, then just cut out. That's the only explanation that makes
sense. Women do that. It's not rational. But they do it. I think she just got
pissed off and cut out."

"Kessel said she took nothing except the clothes on
her back. Nothing."

"No jewelry?" Fiona asked.

"Only what she was wearing," Monte said.
"Nothing else. Sam said Kessel was emphatic about that and that was what
was scaring the shit out of him."

"Maybe she wanted no part of anything," Bunkie
suggested. "She wanted to break clean. It happens."

"Ever happened to you?" Fiona asked.

"Not quite that way. I rather shy away from emotional
glue," Bunkie said. Bet you do, she thought. Cold-blooded bastard. She
turned again to Monte.

"Kessel is dead-certain about her taking
nothing?"

"I just told you," Bunkie interjected snidely.
She ignored him. Monte looked at his watch.

"We'll know in ten more minutes. We're meeting the
Ambassador."

"Monte thinks it's important that you two get
acquainted," Bunkie said. He shot her a look heavy with sarcasm.

"You've done this little chore before?" Fiona
asked Bunkie. "The bearer of bad news?"

"I've got a complicated job," he said morosely.
They waited through the silence. "He's got this insatiable dick."
More silence. "Shit. Yeah two three times. Only when they get serious or
pushy."

"Did his wife know?" Fiona asked, her mind set in
detective mode, mentally lining up the suspects. Force of habit, she told herself,
amused with the idea.

"Know? Hard to say. She'd have to be there, wouldn't
she?" Bunkie said. "Suspect? Goes with the territory. The fact is the
Senator is a family guy."

"Mrs. Langford never raised the issue?"

"Not to me," Bunkie said. "I'd say though
that he has plenty to spare."

"Plenty of what?" Fiona snapped.

"It can rise to any occasion," Bunkie sneered, as
if his surrogate duties included the Senator's brag.

"So you also watch," Fiona said with obvious
contempt.

When he didn't comment, Monte pulled the car away from the
curb and started westward up Independence in the direction of the Washington Monument. It was slow going, the rush hour was in full bloom.

"I still don't know why we had to bring her into
it," Bunkie said.

"She's a pro is why." Monte said. He patted Fiona
on the thigh. "When you report someone missing what happens?"

"Goes into a data bank," Fiona began, explaining
the process. "Available to one and all, up to and including the
G-men."

"They ever find anyone?" Bunkie asked.

"Sometimes. Unfortunately, it takes more manpower than
is ever available. It becomes a lesser police priority as time goes on."
She thought suddenly of Betty Taylor's remains. "And harder to find
them."

"In this case, the best course is to do nothing,"
Bunkie said. "That's my call on it from the beginning. The lady will turn
up. She's probably already shacking up somewhere in Europe. I figure a woman
with that kind of looks can find someone to stake her on a new wardrobe, some
baubles, and the price of an air fare. The more I think about it, the more I
say we're panicked for nothing."

Monte headed the car around the Lincoln Monument back up Twenty-third to Georgetown, then up Wisconsin Avenue, pulling into a
Seven-Eleven parking lot. He did not turn off the motor and after a while
another man jumped into the back seat.