Senator Love Page 21

  They stopped to contemplate the view. As the sun rose higher, she had the distinct impression that blossoms were popping by the second. They were whitening the branches like snow. It was a deliciously soothing sight. For a long time they said nothing, then began to walk again.

  "You'd be asking Sam to participate in what could spell his political self-destruction," Monte said. "Won't help me much, either."

  She did not respond as they walked on in silence for a long time. Washington was awakening. She could see a steady stream of cars snaking across the Potomac bridges.

  "What about doing what's right?" she asked finally.

  He stopped, turned and looked into her eyes.

  "Got me there," he said.

  "Then you'll push him?"

  "Hard," he said. "Under all the bullshit, I think he'll vote his conscience on this one."

  "So do I," Fiona agreed.

  They headed back along the path to the parking lot. When they reached their cars, Monte reached out tentatively with his hand to grasp hers. She took it, mostly in friendship and affection.

  "You're a pal, Monte," she told him, looking into his eyes.

  "Now there's a word pregnant with meaning." She could detect a sigh lurking behind the response.

  "Relationships have a life cycle," she said, noting the edge of pomposity in her tone. Had she said this before to others? she wondered. Perhaps in different ways.

  "Typical Washington, I suppose," Monte replied. "We've raised euphemism to a fine art."

  "Less pain in it, I suppose."

  "It's okay. We're both old enough to stay cool."

  Of course there was sadness in it. And relief. For him as well, she hoped.

  Then he said, "If Sam does go along, I'd make it a point to keep my legs crossed."

  There was a touch of macho in the remark. But she let it stand without challenge.

  25

  FROM WHERE Fiona sat at a round table along the window side of the grand ballroom of the Pan American Building, she could see Frances Langford, looking larger than life in an off-the-shoulder white ballgown that greatly flattered her ample figure.

  Frances sat at a table placed along the wall where one entered the ballroom through wide open doorways from the marbled mezzanine, which led to the twin staircases. The magnificent green-domed building was designed and built in the thirties to commemorate hemispheric solidarity.

  Sam and Nell exchanged glances often with Fiona, whose designated "cover" was to appear in animated conversation with Monte Pappas. Bunkie had been deliberately eliminated from their group, sent by the Senator to California to talk up a preliminary committee for the Presidential campaign, which was, at that moment, much in doubt.

  Peripherally, Fiona had seen Frances look their way, her gaze swiftly moving past them, as if she were merely scanning that side of the room. Was there something proprietary in this glance? Or was it merely idle curiosity? She would soon have that answer.

  Fiona sat next to Sam, and Nell sat beside him on his other side. The other chairs around their table for eight were occupied by a Senator from Wisconsin and his wife and a Congressman from Oklahoma and his wife. It was a charity event for the benefit of Juvenile Diabetes.

  FRANCES LANGFORD'S ubiquitous social agenda had been simple to track. She was everywhere, a networker of extraordinary energy. The "strategy," as it was referred to by Fiona, did not have the enthusiastic support of the Senator and his wife. But Monte had apparently convinced them that they had little choice.

  "You're asking me to torch myself," Sam had told Fiona, after he had agreed to the plan.

  "With your luck you could turn out to be the phoenix, rising from the ashes," Fiona had replied.

  Surprisingly, the eggplant was the most reluctant about Fiona's participation.

  "Unacceptable risk," he had argued. Cates, knowing Fiona's absolute commitment to the idea, had given it his blessing. "If we're right, we're dealing here with a brilliant psychopath. She's put away two ladies without leaving a clue. If she decides to do you, she'll find a way."

  "That's my job," Cates said. "I won't let her out of my sight."

  "Easier said than done," the eggplant said.

  "I've got to do this, Chief," Fiona said firmly.

  He had rubbed his chin with ebony fingers. Then he reached for a panatela and lit it with a match, puffed deeply, and expelled the smoke through his nostrils like a dragon.

  "It's the only way," Fiona pressed. "I'd decline, really I would, let one of you be the patsy. Unfortunately, the good Senator Love isn't into guys."

  The eggplant's lips formed a rare grin.

  Fiona waited for him to make a decision. It was too long in coming and she broke into the silence.

  "The hard part will be to convince her that the Senator and I are ... well ... that way about each other. Enough to trigger the aberration." Again she could not control a blush. "We know the MO. If she's the one, I'll be ready."

  The eggplant took a deep drag on his panatela and spoke.

  "People like that come up on you when you least expect it." The smoke flowed out of his lips on the words.

  "I've gone to the police academy. I know how to defend myself." The benign sarcasm was meant to prod him.

  "I don't like my people to take unnecessary risks."

  The subject of risk was quite common these days. Cops were fair game. So far this year seven had been blown away—five in uniform, two in plainclothes.

  "She doesn't know I'm a cop," Fiona argued, skewering the logic deliberately, wanting to illustrate how lightly she was taking the danger. "What's worse, Chief? Keeping her on the street to do another? Just be a matter of time before someone gets wind that it's the work of a serial psychopath. It happens."

  The implied threat was deliberately soft. She had no intention of setting him off. There was also a subtle appeal to his own self-interest. Breaking the case in this way had real media legs and he, of course, would take all the credit for it. He had slumped in his chair. Now he sat up straight and pointed the burning end of the panatela at her.

  "You get your white ass in a sling, you're in trouble," he said. Then, turning to Cates, "You stay connected. I want you glued, capish?"

  Cates cut a glance at Fiona and grinned.

  "Like Siamese twins, Chief," he said.

  CATES, DRESSED in his tux, sitting at a table in a far corner of the room, was watching her at that very moment. He was a slender, handsome man with mostly Caucasian features and skin that looked like he had gotten himself a deep tan. Only his hair, which was cut close, and a nose with a slight Negroid flatness gave him away as black. Not that it was an issue with him. He was proud of his race, despite the occasional slights of his fellow cops, who had made him feel doubly alien, high yellow and Jamaican, British-dipped variety. In his carefully pressed dress clothes, he looked elegant.

  Liveried waiters proceeded to serve the dinner, which consisted of roast chicken, asparagus and cheddared potatoes served French style. It had been agreed that Fiona would call the shots.

  The band, which had played dance music before dinner, was now playing background music. She had danced with Monte, and the Senator had danced with his wife. Frances took the floor with a distinguished grey-haired man, obviously her date for the evening. As Fiona had observed before at Mount Vernon, Frances greeted both Sam and Nell with a pleasant smile, and they returned the courtesy, a gesture that had surely passed between without incident or second thoughts scores of times.

  "Still inconceivable," Sam said when they had returned to the table for dinner.

  "She never gave us a spot of trouble," Nell whispered. From the beginning, she had been wary of the idea. Having continued to deny to herself that Sam was having an affair with Helga, she saw little logic in the plan. Nor, apparently, had she confronted her husband for an admission. And he had not volunteered a confession.

  "Our theory is based on her perception of events," Fiona had explained diplomatically, "which does not nec
essarily have anything to do with the truth."

  This seemed to satisfy her enough to consent to go along with the plan.

  As the waiters completed serving the baked Alaska, Fiona turned to the Senator and moved her head closer to his, nodding to Nell, who directed her attention to her partner.

  The Senator put his hand on Fiona's bare arm and stroked her. Her skin broke out in goose bumps.

  "How am I doing?" he asked mischievously.

  "You're being very realistic," she said, her attention drawn to the table across the room. "I think we're getting her attention."

  "Probably your imagination," Sam said. She felt him searching her face.

  "You are rather attractive," he said.

  "For a cop," she bantered.

  "I don't believe this is happening," he said, bending closer. He whispered in her ear.

  "Shall I caress your thigh?"

  "You're not taking this seriously." She was suddenly alarmed. He moved his hand and put it under the table. She froze, pressing her legs together, but he did not touch her.

  He continued to study her, while she concentrated on catching Frances in her peripheral vision. She noted that Frances was no longer panning the room as she had done earlier. She was watching them.

  "She's got a bead on us," Fiona whispered.

  "Wish-fulfillment," Sam snickered.

  "We'll know soon enough."

  Beside him Nell was playing her part, talking with animation with the man beside her. Monte was doing the same with his partner on the other side, a shy horse-faced woman wearing a gown that had seen its best days in the fifties.

  "In the meantime, what shall we talk about?" Sam asked.

  "You're the politician. They're never supposed to be at a loss for words."

  "I keep asking myself. Why are we here?"

  "You're helping to catch a killer."

  He grew silent, his taste for banter obviously fading.

  Fiona's eyes darted toward Frances' table, then returned quickly.

  "I'd say we have deeply arrested her attention," Fiona said. She looked into Sam Langfond's blue eyes. Despite the tension of the situation, they appeared somewhat bemused.

  "When they play dance music, we'll get on the floor," Fiona said.

  "I can't wait," the Senator said. He was back to banter now.

  "Act, dammit. She's biting."

  "I'm a lousy actor," Sam muttered.

  "The hell you are," she said.

  Leaning closer, he brought his lips close to her ear. But he said nothing. Instead, he kissed her on the earlobe.

  Her heart began to pound in her chest and her temperature seemed to have risen. But she knew that Frances had picked up the signals, was watching them with greater and greater interest.

  "Did I do all right?" he asked.

  "I'd say a trifle indiscreet," she said, as the waiters began to clear the main course. "We'll dance soon."

  She had instructed both Monte and Nell to restrain any desire to look toward Frances, and they had cooperated fully. Both of them looked quite interested in the conversation with their dinner partners. They were doing their part. Fiona was quite pleased.

  The band struck up a slow dance tune and couples began to head toward the floor.

  "Now," Fiona said.

  Sam got up, took Fiona's hand and led her to the dance floor. Close dancing in Washington was socially acceptable. People tried hard to be ingratiating, and men and women rarely exhibited scandalous conduct. Image was everything. Sam's image was that of a handsome charmer and target for the ladies. That was a perfectly acceptable persona to exhibit publicly. After all, he was married to an attractive woman and had two delightful children. Stepping out of line with other ladies was assumed for any man of power and clout, but never flaunted. A level of philandering was tolerated just as long as it stayed deeply in the closet. Sam's propensity was outside the parameters of what was considered acceptable. Far outside. That was the real secret to be kept. That was media fodder of the first rank.

  Only someone who truly observed with a high level of concentration could detect the real meaning beneath the surface of body language—interpreting what to others might be harmless dance titillation as blatant sexual foreplay instead. That was what Fiona was betting on.

  She saw Frances rise and glide onto the floor in the arms of one of her dinner partners, a heavyset man exactly her height.

  "Make it authentic," Fiona whispered, her arm creeping upward along Sam's back, a trifle north of mere affection. He pressed his pelvis against hers, his fingers caressing her bare back. In another prearranged detail, Monte and Nell were dancing in a far corner of the room, well away from Sam and Fiona.

  Deliberately Fiona closed her eyes, as if to simulate the ecstasy of the proximity to the Senator. She followed Sam's short steps. He was light-footed and graceful. His body ground into her, rhythmic, with a slight gyration. Oh my God, she thought again. Hazardous duty. She felt his erection.

  "You wanted convincing," he said. "I'll give you convincing."

  "Jesus."

  "It's an involuntary reaction," he whispered. "I can't help it. Live with it."

  Worse, she felt a complementary reaction in herself and opened her eyes. At that moment, Frances' eyes locked into hers. She was no more than five feet away and there was no misinterpreting the look. Malevolent, hate-drenched, violent.

  With hand pressure on his back, she signaled him to move laterally. She had to get away from those eyes, that look.

  "I saw her, the real Frances," she whispered. "I'm right. I know I'm right."

  Responding, Sam had whirled to get a better look at Frances. She felt him nod, then turn again.

  "All I get is a polite smile," he said.

  "I see murder," Fiona said.

  "I still don't get it." The expelled air from his sigh brushed against her cheek. She felt his erection subside.

  "You're doing just fine," Fiona said, somewhat relieved. "Just keep an open mind."

  She took him by the hand and led him toward the exit doors of the ballroom. They moved down one of the marble staircases to the lobby level. There, she led him to a darkened spot in the atrium situated between the two staircases. She had carefully staked out the spot in advance. It provided a clear view of them to anyone who looked over the balustrade, yet masked the possibility to anyone watching from the lobby.

  She deliberately placed herself so that only she could see any heads that poked themselves over the balustrade. They stood closely together, facing each other, only inches apart. Sam's back faced the balcony. Recognition would be difficult.

  Turning slightly, she could see through the glass entrance doors to the building, where uniformed security men and chauffeurs milled about. Not far from where they stood and just out of sight was the hat-check facility. She could hear the women clerks talking softly among themselves.

  "Is she watching?" the Senator asked.

  "Not yet."

  "You could be wrong."

  "I'm not," she said with conviction.

  Then she saw a head pop up over the balustrade. Cates. He was standing just where the balustrade made its long graceful turn toward its downward descent.

  Sam had sensed her tension.

  "Her?"

  "No."

  When she looked again, he was gone. Then suddenly Frances was there, her face visible over the balustrade. She was looking directly down at them.

  "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.