Senator Love Read online

  BOOKS BY WARREN ADLER

  Banquet Before Dawn

  Blood Ties

  Cult

  Death of a Washington Madame

  Empty Treasures

  Flanagan's Dolls

  Funny Boys

  Madeline's Miracles

  Mourning Glory

  Natural Enemies

  Private Lies

  Random Hearts

  Residue

  The Casanova Embrace

  The Children of the Roses

  The David Embrace

  The Henderson Equation

  The Housewife Blues

  The War of the Roses

  The Womanizer

  Trans-Siberian Express

  Twilight Child

  Undertow

  We Are Holding the President Hostage

  SHORT STORIES

  Jackson Hole, Uneasy Eden

  Never Too Late For Love

  New York Echoes

  New York Echoes 2

  The Sunset Gang

  MYSTERIES

  American Sextet

  American Quartet

  Immaculate Deception

  Senator Love

  The Ties That Bind

  The Witch of Watergate

  Copyright © 1991 by Warren Adler.

  ISBN 978-1-59006-094-0

  All rights reserved. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced

  in any form without permission. This novel is a work of fiction.

  Names, characters, places, incidents are either the product

  of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Inquiries: WarrenAdler.com

  STONEHOUSE PRESS

  Contents

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  For Sunny, again.

  1

  "NOT GARFIELD," Fiona FitzGerald whispered, looking over Monte Pappas' thick shoulder as they scrutinized the seating list. A sweet-faced young woman suitably festooned in the costume of a colonial dame had handed them the list along with a toothpaste-sincere smile.

  The Pepsi company had pulled out all stops for this annual bash of ingratiation for the celebration and benefit of the Congress and the diplomatic corps, a high-profile wingding, a not-so-subtle thank-you for helping or, alas, not interfering with spreading the international cheer of feel-good bellywash. Fiona, influenced by Monte Pappas' Public-Relations-Man cynicism and her own extensive Washington experience did not wish to think such spoiling thoughts. But how was it to be avoided?

  The company had hired the hallowed plantation of George Washington's Mount Vernon, no less, put up a giant tent on a side lawn adjacent to the main house to hold more than 350 people and was laying on a five-course gourmet supper served by an army of white-gloved waiters on tables set with gleaming china and topped with elaborate floral centerpieces. Each table was designated by a Presidential name written in impeccable calligraphy on white board. For whatever inexplicable reason, although Fiona knew that such things were carefully orchestrated, they had drawn President Garfield.

  There was a ten-piece band and a dance floor laid down in the tent's center and a large area set aside for the cocktail hour, a set piece of Washington entertaining devoted to the usual networking, influence-hustling and double-cheeking.

  Some surely might have thought it defamatory for this national shrine to be invaded by the bellywashers and their freeloading minions, but this, as Monte had pointed out so aptly on the horse-drawn carriage ride from the Potomac river dock to the tent, was the age of corporate "Kultur" and thus the bash was a singularly appropriate exercise in one-upmanship. Besides, he had added, "Who else could afford it?"

  They had glided into the Mount Vernon dock on charter boats moored on Main Street, which was closer to Capitol Hill, taking the slow ride the few miles downriver while a band played dance music and the bartenders merrily poured champagne. The April air was damp with the gamey odor of the awakening earth and there was more than a hint of a spring rain.

  For Fiona, a Senator's daughter, weaned on the heady and subtle sweetness of Washington milk, the event went beyond the genre, and no amount of cynicism could dampen the sheer wonder and chutzpa of the idea. All right, so it was charmingly decadent, perhaps even a tiny defamation of this historical icon. But, hell, it was, after all, a slave plantation in old George's day and, therefore, not politically perfect by today's political standards. So what was wrong with such a choice spot for a bit of vulgar fun?

  The rooms of the mansion house, with the exception of the entry foyer, were verboten to guests, and an impressive multitude of gleaming white johnny-on-the-spots, reached through a tented corridor, were arranged in a picket line adjacent to the main big top. It struck her that in-house johns were not a feature in old George's day and, therefore, the facilities were historically appropriate, which represented a saving grace of sorts.

  There were moments, and this might be one of them, when she felt somewhat superior to the situation, a trifle too all-knowing and cynically cocksure. Monte Pappas, a gun-for-hire on any political campaign that could pay his price, wasn't shy about catering to and embellishing this attitude. He had, after all, adopted it as his everyday business pose. Fiona had already penetrated that part of him and seen the vulnerable sweetness under the facade, which titillated her motherly and less-platonic instincts.

  "So ask me," he had challenged her as they stood on the rail of the charter boat watching movie-set Washington twinkle past. "Why do they do it?"

  It was his invitation, and she was only "and guest," and he was entitled to her version of the answer.

  "Influence," she said.

  "And ego," he instructed. "Never forget ego. For one shining moment the Chairman gets to beat his breast in front of the power elite. The message is: 'Look at all my marbles, people. See 'em. Count 'em. Respect 'em. I'll throw some in your game if you be nice. And if you take them, by God, you better be nice to me.'"

  "So what else is new," she replied.

  "Who's talking new?" Pappas said, his arm enveloping her, touching her shoulder, squeezing lightly. She could feel his breath as he bent over to kiss her ear. Of course, he was executing his version of a seduction. This was, after all, their second official date, although they had known each other casually on the social circuit for years, part of her non-cop life.

  He was dark, stocky and, as they say, forensically speaking, well nourished. Even in his tux he looked lumpy—his cummerbund did not seem like a good idea. But she liked his shifty, street-smart moves, especially his know-it-all throwaways that sometimes passed for wisdom, and in the context of when said, often seemed to cut into the heart of some simple truth.

  The darkness of his beard suggested that his slightly inflated soft body was covered with a carpet of tightly matted jet-black curly hair, although she did not broadcast her curiosity. Put him down for a maybe, she decided. At the moment she preferred to keep matters on a plateau of sophisticated Washington banter.

  Under the tent, they headed for one of the bars, threading their way through layers of familiar political and social faces. She knew some of them,
stopping to chat as she moved through the crowd, offering her face for the occasional double-cheeker. Monte, too, worked the crowd in his own way, pressing the flesh, offering a wink or a bear hug where appropriate.

  It was the Washington social way, peculiar unto itself, as comfortable to her as an old glove, despite her chosen profession. Always she marveled at the contrast, the Jekyll-and-Hyde aspect of her life, never quite knowing which part of it was the truth of herself.

  Monte brought her champagne, taking a neat scotch for himself. It looked like a double. They moved to a quiet spot to survey the scene.

  "Why the sigh over Garfield?" Monte asked.

  "One of the bumped-off ones," she replied.

  "Hope there's no symbolism there," Monte said, casting his gaze about in mock fear. "I need every client I can get." He could tell she was confused.

  "It's Sam Langford's table," Monte explained. On their first date he had told her that Sam was a client, that he had run his two winning Senatorial campaigns.

  An inveterate political watcher, a habit from her youth as the daughter of Senator Edward FitzGerald, Fiona knew who Langford was. Twice Senator from Florida, a comer, bright, handsome, fashionably conservative, terrific speaker.

  "He's about to stretch himself," Monte whispered as they moved toward the table. She recognized Langford standing near an attractive woman and chatting with a young couple.

  "The big banana?" she asked.

  "Why not?" Monte shrugged. "He's got it all." He lowered his voice to a mood-changing mutter. "Maybe too much." Then raised it again on a note of optimism. "Be a great shot for yours truly."

  "Here he is," Langford said as he spied Monte, "the Greek Oracle."

  Dimples, Fiona thought. He has cute dimples and thick wavy light-brown hair going gracefully to grey, she remarked to herself. And blue eyes to boot. Not too tall, but flat-gutted and athletic looking.

  Introductions were exchanged. The attractive woman beside him was Nell Langford, his wife—tall, blonde, squeaky clean and smiley. Taken right off the shelf marked "obedient political wife," Fiona decided instantly. Somehow her smile seemed overly joyous in contrast to her eyes, which were sad and wary, confusing Fiona's first impression.

  The younger man was introduced as Bunkie Farrington, who then introduced his date, a Bonnie something. Bunkie! The name itself seemed a definition of the man. He wore a high-collared tux shirt and a red bow tie. Blondish, balding, ferret-eyed, mid-thirties, his entire demeanor said, "Color me preppy forever." Instantly she knew she had him pegged. Langford's political lackey.

  Odd, she thought, how some men telescope their personas so accurately. Or was it her cop training? She could hear his credo: "I'd go through the fires of hell for that man," meaning Langford, as if he were joined to the man's hip. By this, he surely reasoned, there would be the big payoff for old Bunkie. She sniffed him, figured him for a shade over 25. He stank of ambition. The aroma was always gamier at that age. He had just handed the Senator and his wife two drinks taken from a silver tray carried by one of the ambulatory white-gloved waiters. Only then did he serve himself and Bonnie something.

  "Pappas says you're a cop," Langford said.

  "Rest easy, Senator, you're not under suspicion."

  He roared his laughter, then looked at Monte. "There's your man," he said, pointing to the bulging middle behind Monte's cummerbund. "He's hiding the jewels in there."

  "Sam," Nell said with disapproval too genuine to be good natured.

  "Not her bag, Senator," Pappas shot back, masking his wound. "She's homicide."

  "Heavy," Bunkie said, his interest elsewhere as his networking, predatory eyes scoped the tent. In a flash he spotted prey, moved out and led a distinguished-looking bemedaled gentlemen to the Senator's side.

  "You know Ambassador Blackburn," he said as the Senator proceeded to press flesh. Of course, they knew each other casually, but this was simply another moment for the Senator to show the flag to a representative of a powerful country. The two men chewed over the small-talk amenities appropriate to the event and parted.

  "Grist for expanding one's experience in the area of foreign affairs," Monte whispered. "He's the Brit."

  During the exchange, Bunkie continued to survey the crowd, found another victim, zeroed in and struck. Senator Sam never moved, the idea being to bring the mountains to Mohammed. Sun never sets on good old Bunkie, Fiona thought, noting her instant dislike of the man. With good reason, she decided.

  His persona was a Washington category, the preppy sycophant, sucking up power and warmth from Langford's rays, a staff man outside the line of real legislative work. An image of what was surely his daily dress code popped into her mind. Polka-dot bow tie on a button-down striped shirt. Pants held up by suspenders decorated with ducks. Patterned long-shorts underwear. As a kid he would have scared the shit out of a cat with a cigarette lighter. Going too far, she decided, reigning in her bile, her thoughts drifting back to present tense.

  "My name is Kessel," a man's voice said behind her in a clearly Germanic cadence. "And I've been assigned to Garfield."

  "Hans," Senator Langford said, putting out his hand while an arm crept about the man's shoulders.

  "The Austrian Ambassador and the lovely Helga," Monte whispered with an air of unmistakable contempt. Langford planted a double-cheeker on a spectacularly beautiful lady in a pink sheath gown. Around her neck she wore a dazzling ruby necklace with matching earrings. A diamond bracelet hung around one wrist and an assortment of rings decorated graceful white fingers.

  The woman's eyes sparkled with pleasure as she beheld the Senator from behind high cheekbones, holding the gaze longer than what might be considered appropriate.

  "Does it show?" Monte hissed.

  "The jewelry?"

  "You know what I mean."

  Before she could reply the answer was irrevocably telescoped in Nell Langford's barely perceptible lip tremor as she nodded toward the Ambassador's wife. An attempt at smiling would have created jagged fissures on her face.

  "I was so happy when I saw the seating list," the Austrian Ambassador said. Fiona cut a glance at Bunkie, hoping for a wink. None came, of course. He did not even acknowledge her look. But she knew it was he who had arranged the seating. She was puzzled by the Ambassador's pleasure over the seating.

  The band began to play soft dinner music and the guests began to straggle to their seats. The Austrian Ambassador took his place beside Nell, and Helga glided gracefully to a seat to the right of the Senator. Bunkie flanked her on the other side. Beside him, responding to the appropriate male-female protocol and much to her distaste, came Fiona. Thankfully, she had Monte on her right.

  An army of white-gloved waiters fanned out to place the salad and pour the white wine. Fiona suspected that they would pay some lip service to the "turn" between courses, although she decided that old Bunkie would be deliberately attentive to Helga to cover for the Senator's being overly conspicuous in his ministrations to the lady.

  "Damn fool," Monte whispered in her ear. "Bastard's got an Achilles' crotch."

  "An occupational hazard," Fiona sighed, remembering her father and her mother's pain.

  "This one's got a political death wish," Monte said. She could tell he was genuinely annoyed. "He'll blow it. I know he will. A need-to-conquer syndrome like poor Gary Hart." He shook his head. "Zip it up, schmuck," he muttered under his breath.

  "Maybe he wants to get caught," Fiona said, spooning out traditional cop philosophy.

  "He gets caught, I get nada," Monte sighed. "Sad case. Man's got it all. Looks. Brains. Good projection. Articulate." He shook his head.

  "Seems he's done all right so far, despite his ... ah ... predisposition to being a satyr," Fiona said.

  "The media x-ray is a surfacey thing in a Senatorial campaign. In a Presidential it goes to the bone." She looked at him archly, catching the inadvertent pun. Finally he laughed and took a deep sip of his wine. "Look at me," he chuckled, "so concerned with another
man's sex life." He sighed theatrically. "No justice anywhere. He feasts. I starve. Maybe there's more to it than just business." He paused. "Like jealousy."

  She patted his hand and shook her head. "You men and your penis envy," she chuckled. He laughed.

  "Maybe we can share the joke," Bunkie said.

  "We are sharing it," Monte said, noting that there was no love lost between the two men.

  "Won't work out of context," Fiona said as Bunkie shrugged and turned back to Helga.

  Plates were exchanged. An elegantly displayed fish course followed. Then perfect pink filets along with the French reds. Vegetables were served with consummate skill. It was, she realized, an orgy of overstaffing, a pampering, obviously a well-rehearsed and executed event. Someone would surely get a bonus.

  Rich was always better, she decided, feeling again the profound, guilt-tinged kinship with her colleagues in the cops struggling to get by, usually with two paychecks and always with constant financial anxiety. In this environment, she would suffer severe bouts of second thoughts about her choice of career. Was she really the alien she imagined, the daughter of power and privilege slumming in a blue-collar ménage?

  It was a question posed with ever-diminishing frequency. The cop hook was in her, the idea of it, the challenge, the danger, the adventure and, yes, the contrast. Despite the sometime pettiness, the turf and racial anxieties, the ego and emotional thrashing and bashing, there were psychic satisfactions in her job that were, well, enriching and worthwhile. Having her own "fuck-you" money made it even more fulfilling.

  The grass only seems greener, she smirked to herself, her gaze washing over this acre of privilege. Anyway, she decided, as the soft French red titillated her palate, this ain't all bad.

  Between courses the band played dance music and the dance floor filled with whirling couples.

  "Ironies are everywhere," Monte whispered. She followed his gaze. He was watching a stately woman dancing with a ramrod-stiff grey-haired man in a two-step that reminded her of dancers in an old movie. No talk passed between them as they concentrated on the band's rhythm.

  "The first Mrs. Langford," Monte said. "Can't get them to go home once they've seen Paree." Voluble sober, Monte seemed to be growing even more loquacious with his wine intake, which was considerable. Problem was that the waiters, to keep the assemblage well watered, were pouring heavy, leaving no glass untopped.