The Candidate (Romantic Suspense) (The Candidate Series) (2 page)

 “Tough break, Brinker.” Mansfield’s sympathy seemed real. “I guess Calder’s little extracurricular activity slipped by your vetting process.”

Vetting process? Yeah sure, there was a time when Ben actually cared if his clients withstood a sniff test. But that was years ago, when he was still young and idealistic. It only took a campaign or two before Ben caught on to the fact that all politicians had skeletons in their closets. The goal was to keep them from popping out during the race. Why should one personal misguided indiscretion stop a good candidate’s quest to improve the lives of all Americans?

He thought he had locked up Calder’s good and tight—thanks to a $3,000-a-week cash withdrawal from a generous trust fund established by a cabal of Calder’s closest good-ol’-boy supporters.

Obviously the
Enquirer’s
offer had been somewhat more generous.

The smile Ben gave the senator this time was less cocky. “Yeah, well, pristine politicians are few and far between. If you know of one, give him my number.” 

Mansfield took out a business card and handed it to Ben. “Looks like you’ll be having some free time on your hands. Headed back to D.C. tonight?”

Ben shrugged and nodded. No reason to stick around now. 

“Great. Then why don’t you stop by the Fairmont tomorrow evening, say, around eleven? The Colonnade Room. There’s a little event being thrown, and I’m the guest of honor. Should give you a feel of what I’m about.” With that the senator was gone.

Yeah, as if I’d ever work for a Republican
, thought Ben.
Even I am not that desperate.

He heard the buzz of his cell phone and pulled it out of his pocket. Chris Matthews’ producer. He hit the mute button.

There was no good way to spin the Calder fiasco. But in good conscience, Ben couldn’t yet turn in his resignation until Calder formally pulled out of the race. No doubt that would happen later that evening. Or even earlier, if Calder’s wife had already gotten wind of the fiasco and was on her way down to the courthouse to file for divorce. 

If he hurried, he could still make the last United non-stop back to D.C.  

Chapter 2

 “You sure are one stupid sonofabitch!” Congressman Calder’s rant, roaring out of Ben’s iPhone, could be heard by each and every wayward traveler in the Manchester Airport lounge, including the bartender who was trying hard not to smirk as he slid Ben’s double Glenlivet, neat, in front of him. “Damn it, Brinker, you told me you had that bitch under control!” 

Despite a splitting headache, Ben cradled his cell as close as he could to his head, then grabbed his glass as if it were a lifeline and took a swig. If he thought the scotch’s numbing burn would muffle Dick Calder’s profanity-laced bellowing, he was sorely mistaken. Worse yet, while Calder was screaming into one ear, Chris Matthews was barking his own ruminations about “the politician and his baby mama” on the lounge’s TV set. His guest pundits—Paul Begala, Bay Buchanan, and Arianna Huffington, each wedged into a thin slice of the split screen—were spinning their own theories on the first scandal of the election season.

“Calm down, Dick! I did take care of her. I always do, don’t I?” Ben ran his fingers through his hair. Three strands—all white—dropped on the bar beside his napkin. After today he wouldn’t be shocked to find that they’d all turned white—or that they’d all fallen out. “I just talked to her yesterday in fact, and—Oh...wait!...
Shit!
”

“What now?”

“I—well...Okay, look: Last night I didn’t have time to swing by there before my flight with—well, you know, her little stipend. I called instead, and told her I’d drop over tonight.” 

In all honesty, seeing Jenna never made Ben happy. He’d met her a decade ago, when she was one of the many fresh-faced bright young things on the Hill. Having just been hired on as a Staff Ass to her home state senator, she was a small-town girl with a sunny smile and great legs: something admired by Calder, among others—including Ben. And with so much going for her, Jenna wasn’t exactly a saint. Then again, she wasn’t a
Washingtonienne
, either. She truly believed Calder’s bullshit when he told her he’d leave his wife for her. 

At least, those first three or four years they were together.

Needless to say, when Jenna broke the news to him that she was pregnant, of course he hit the roof. Still, Jenna did her part. She left the Hill before her pregnancy could be discerned under her fitted suits. 

Her discretion was part of her charm for Calder, whose wife gave him a wide berth but had made it ominously clear that the gates of hell would open up under him should any scandal threaten her hard-earned standing in Washington society. 

As the executor of little Cole’s trust, of course Ben knew otherwise. 

Lately, though, Jenna had been fretting over what Calder’s presidential aspirations would mean to her and Cole. She was no fool. Under normal circumstances she saw him, what, twice in a month? If Calder were to get the Democratic nomination, odds were he’d drop her like the hot political potato she was. 

“And when he does, who’s going to hire me? No one!” she’d fretted to Ben last night on the phone. “Not that Cole’s illness isn’t a full-time job. But without employment, I’ve got no health insurance. Ben, these medical bills are eating me alive, and that cheap son of a bitch Calder begrudges me every dime. I’m not living high on the hog here. I mean for God’s sake, Cole is his son, too!”

No wonder Jenna had sounded so anxious on the phone last night. Besides whatever the Enquirer was paying, apparently she’d hoped to get her cash before the Couric interview aired.

 Calder turned icy cold. “Let me get this right, Brinker: In other words,
you blew her off?
”

“No, not exactly. I mean—”

“Save it, Kiss Ass. For once, you may have done me a favor. At least I saved a few thousand there.” Calder’s cruel chortle sent chills up Ben’s spine. “It’ll be a cold day in hell when that cunt sees another buck from me. Her little gravy train is over. And so is yours, Brinker. It was your incompetence that lost me the election.”

It was all Ben could do not to shout back into the phone,
You did this to yourself, shithead. If you’d loosened your wallet, she would have kept quiet forever.

Instead he took a deep breath. “Can I help it that the
Enquirer
made her a better offer?”

His retort was met with silence. Then Calder hissed: “That’s my point, you fucking moron. You should have come up with a more
permanent
solution. Like offing the bitch.”

What the hell?

Yeah, okay. Lying to the media, to donors, even to his candidates’ wives was one thing. And these days a payoff (to a dirty cop who could be convinced to “lose” an arrest warrant, or a blackmailer, let alone a loudmouth mistress) was just business as usual. But
arranging a hit?
 

No, even
I
won’t sink that low, thought Ben.

Ben knew the bartender had overheard Calder’s taunt, too, because the stocky Irishman stopped polishing the counter mid-wipe and scrutinized him through hooded eyes. Ben pretended not to notice, but a moist trickle of shame inched its way down his back. 

He turned his head in the hope of deflecting the man’s stare. Then with as much dignity as he could muster, he muttered, “Seriously, Congressman, what do you take me for, some sort of thug?”

Calder cackled so hard that Ben had to hold the iPhone away from his ear. “A ‘thug’? Frankly, that would be a step up for you, Brinker. Hell, a cockroach would be a promotion. For Christ sake, you’re just a fucking
political consultant
. Or have you forgotten that?” 

If the cell hadn’t chirped as the line went dead, Ben would have faked some sort of face-saving kiss-off for the benefit of the bartender and anyone else who was still listening, but why bother? Everyone was watching the television, anyway. 

Ben’s eyes gravitated there too when he realized what they were staring at: his photo, which had suddenly appeared on the television screen as Matthews spit out his name:

“—Is it just me, or has there been an epidemic of political scandals lately? Seems like the only thing they have in common is the same political consultant: Ben Brinker. Remember the congressman from Utah who was caught last month soliciting teenage girls over the Internet?”

The screen cut back to the pundits. “Well, yeah, that was Ben’s candidate, too.” Begala’s nod was accompanied with a grimace. “But hey, Chris, we political consultants don’t carry crystal balls. And the ‘Mr. Smith Goes to Washington’ types are few and far between—”

“If I remember correctly, Brinker also handled that governor who recently got indicted in a construction kickback scandal.” Bay shook her head in disgust. “And didn’t he work on the campaign of that senator whose diplomatic aspirations went up in smoke faster than you could say ‘back taxes’? Whitewashing the depraved makes you just as culpable, in my book.”

“Granted, there are some pathetic losers up on the Hill, but there are also some really great statesmen—
and
stateswomen.” Chris was just warming up. “They just don’t hire creeps like Brinker.”

“Bottom line is that Brinker’s the best at putting lipstick on pigs and running them for office.” Arianna’s icy chuckle pierced right through Ben. “But seriously, how many political consultants can survive in D.C. with those kind of ‘see-no-evil, hear-no-evil’ antics? It may work if you’re a candidate’s wife, but not a campaign strategist who wants to stay on K Street.” 

Damn, that’s harsh, hon. Well then hell, don’t count on me blogging anytime on HuffPo...Yeah, okay, so it’s a long shot that, after this Calder crap, you’ll ever ask me again.

“Nah, something else is going on here!” Matthews was on a roll. “Maybe some lousy karma. ‘Bad Luck Brinker’ is some sort of political cooler who jinxes his candidates’ chances—”

This set off a cacophony of supposition, innuendo and balls-to-the-wall blarney from his guests. Above it all Matthews roared his patented, “
Tell me something I don’t know!
Be right back–”

All eyes in the bar turned to Ben.

Hit with the realization that his income stream had just dried up—worse yet, that he wouldn’t be able to replace it because he’d never live down this latest humiliation—the Tilt’n Diner’s signature whoopee cake pie crawled back up Ben’s throat, along with his Glenlivet neat.

Swallowing hard, he tossed a ten on the bar and, with what dignity he could muster, walked to the men’s room.

Once inside, he kicked open an empty stall, and promptly threw up.

 “I never thought I’d ever hear from you again.” It was Jenna’s idea that they meet far out of town, and suggested Brookside Gardens, in Silver Spring. Ben could see why. Ever since the Couric interview, the media had been hounding her like a pack of wolves. At this frigid time of year, the gardens would be empty. 

Of course, the last thing he needed was any further association with Calder, or with Jenna either, for that matter. But no; he had to do this one last thing.

Ben hardly recognized her. Not only was she thinner and more haggard but for once she didn’t have Cole at her side. “Where’s the little guy?”

“With his physical therapist, so I don’t have much time.” Jenna’s eyes darted constantly as she scanned the empty rows of bushes, as if someone might be lurking. He couldn’t blame her for being antsy. Still, knowing her, he had no doubt that she was too ashamed to look him in the eye. “So what do you want, Ben?”

“Here. Take this.” He opened the bag he was carrying and pulled out a book:
David Copperfield
. 

She stared down at it, puzzled. “Is this for Cole?”

“Yeah, you could say that. There’s a hundred dollar bill at the beginning of every other chapter. It’s not much, but still. I know you can use it.”

Tears glazed her soft brown eyes. “But—I thought, after last night...He wants me to have it anyway?”

Ben shrugged. “We both know Dick better than that.”

“Jeez, Ben, he’ll hit the roof when he finds out you did this.” The hand she laid on top of his was the one with which she’d wiped away her tears. The dampness comforted him.

“I don’t give a flying fuck. And neither should you. Besides, the way I had the account set up, there’s nothing he can do about it.” He sighed. “Not that it matters now, but just out of curiosity, how much did you get for the interview anyway? It better have been worth it.”

“A quarter of a million.”

Ben winced. “Damn, Jenna.  There was eight times that amount in Cole’s account. Between the two of us we’d have convinced him to raise your allowance.”

 “Like you said—we both know Dick better than that.”

“But you know me, too. Jenna. Do you think I could have done that to you? To Cole?”

Her lip trembled, but she held her head steady. “Not in a million years—once upon a time. But I couldn’t risk finding out the hard way you weren’t that guy anymore.” She hugged the book to her chest. “I’m sorry, Ben. Forgive me.”