Capitol Murder Read online

  “Didn’t Glancy hire a team of big-firm lawyers to do that kinda stuff?”

  “Yes, a magnificent beau geste designed to show his gratitude to Ben-that hasn’t helped in the least. A bunch of twenty-eight-year-olds in starched shirts billing three hundred dollars an hour. Give me a break. I’d rather do it myself.”

  Loving frowned. “Least you can make yourself useful.”

  “You’re the resident hawkshaw. Don’t you have some investigating to do?”

  “I’ve been investigatin’ for five months. And I haven’t come up with squat.”

  “No theories?”

  “Oh, I got lots of theories. The Trilateral Commission runs this town-they’re behind all the big power plays. There’s basically thirteen old men who run the world.”

  Jones resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He’d long since become accustomed to Loving’s endless supply of conspiracy theories. “Got anything Ben could conceivably use in court?”

  “Nah. I’ve interviewed all the witnesses. Everyone who might know somethin’ about the case. Looked under every rock. And struck out each time.” He was interrupted by a computer chip rendition of the William Tell Overture. “’Scuse. That’s my cell.”

  Jones turned back to his screen. “Probably Ben wanting me to run him over some pencils or something. As if I had nothing better to do.”

  “Yeah?” Loving said, as he snapped open the phone.

  The voice on the other end was low and whispery. “You the one looking for intel on the Cooper killing?”

  Loving’s eyes widened. “Yeah, I am. Who’s this?”

  “That’s not important.”

  “I gotta call you somethin’.”

  “Fine.” There was a short, bitter laugh. “Call me Deep Throat.”

  Loving felt his heart race. “Like-in that movie they showed at my brother-in-law’s bachelor party?”

  “The-what? No, like in-never mind. You don’t need to call me anything. But I can help you.”

  “How?”

  “You want Glancy to get off, don’t you?”

  “That’s our goal, yeah,” Loving said, not quite answering the question. Having seen that video several times too often, he personally had a hard time getting worked up about whether Glancy was convicted. This was a job he was working for Ben, period. “How can you help?”

  “The secret to saving the accused,” the voice continued, “is finding out more about the victim.”

  “I’ve investigated the victim. For months. I know where she grew up and what her favorite colors were and what grades she made in junior high science. I’ve talked with her mom. I know everything about the woman.”

  The softness of his voice gave his chuckle an eerie hollowness. “No, you don’t. Not by a long shot.”

  “Okay, hotshot, tell me what I don’t know.”

  “Not over the phone.”

  “Oh, puh-lese.”

  “Will you meet me? Someplace safe?”

  “What is it with you Washington clowns?” Loving said. “Can’t you ever just talk to someone like a normal human being?”

  “No, I can’t. If he found out-”

  “If who found out?”

  “I can’t tell you that. But if you’ll agree to meet me…”

  “Fine.” Loving acted exasperated, but in reality he was elated. It was a lead-or at least the promise of a lead. Even if the guy was a kook, which was the most likely case, it would give him something to do. “Where you wanna meet?”

  “How about the Reflecting Pool. You’re already near, right?”

  “Where exactly? It’s a big pool.”

  “I can’t specify a location. I have to remain fluid. To keep watch for people who might recognize me.”

  Loving felt his patience draining. “Then how am I gonna find you?”

  “You won’t have to. Just leave your office, right now, walk across to the Pool, find an empty bench, and make yourself comfortable.” He paused. “When it’s safe, I’ll find you.”

  The courtroom was as silent as a vacuum while all assembled waited for the judge to arrive. It was almost like a wedding: the supporters of the defendant were seated on the right side of the courtroom behind the defense table, next to the jury box. The prosecution, the deceased’s family, and most of the press sat on the left. No cameras were allowed in the courtroom, but there were record numbers of notepads, sketch artists, and laptops with padded keyboard silencers and Wi-Fi transmitters that beamed each word back to a receiving station in Glancy’s Glen.

  Ben also spotted a number of Glancy’s fellow senators in the gallery. Presumably they got first dibs on the limited seats, if they wanted them. The Republicans had excoriated Glancy from the moment the body was found. The Democratic support was lukewarm at best: “I’m optimistic that when the truth is uncovered, we will find that Todd did not commit these horrific acts, despite appearances. But let me make it clear that I do not condone sexual harassment in the workplace…” That sort of thing. Although a motion to censure had been brought, it was tabled for the time being. Independent counsel had been appointed to investigate whether any violation of federal law “or Senate protocol” had occurred-but as yet, nothing had been done. They were all waiting to see what happened in the courtroom. Glancy had resisted calls for his resignation; if for no other reason, his replacement would be chosen by Oklahoma ’s current governor, a staunch Republican. Given how close the balance between the two parties was in the Senate at the moment, the outcome of this trial could affect far more than the future of Tom Glancy; it could quite literally affect the future of the nation itself.

  No pressure there, Ben thought, muttering under his breath. None at all.

  “Judge Herndon should be here soon.” Ben said. “Know him?”

  “Ben, I know everyone in this town,” Glancy replied calmly. In dramatic contrast to the nervousness Ben was experiencing, the defendant was maintaining his usual implacable sangfroid. “Herndon is a Republican, alas. Been around a long while. Used to be in private practice, then he helped George Bush the First raise a lot of campaign dough and got himself appointed to a federal judgeship. He’s still active in the Republican machine. I’m surprised he hasn’t moved higher than the district court by now. It suggests several relevant possibilities.”

  “Such as?”

  “Either he likes it where he is, or there’s a reason he can’t get anything better.”

  “Heads up, Ben,” Christina whispered. “Enemy at five o’clock.”

  Ben’s esteemed opponent, federal prosecutor Paul Padolino, headed his way. Padolino was a calm man, eminently reasonable, quiet and laconic, unlike most prosecutors. To Ben’s knowledge, he had not indulged in excessive gamesmanship and had not held repeated press conferences despite the fact that he reportedly had political ambitions. Nonetheless Ben knew that as soon as the judge’s gavel sounded, they would both relinquish all pretense of civility and begin a titanic struggle, each desperate to come out the victor.

  Padolino paused at the defendant’s table, nodded politely to Christina, then looked Ben square in the eye. “Life, incarceration at the upscale prison in Arlington, possibility of parole in eight years.”

  “You call that an offer?” Ben said. It was his standard reply to all plea bargains; the only thing it meant was that he needed more time to think.

  “I call that the best you’re going to get. The prison I’m offering has tennis courts, for God’s sake. A nine-hole golf course.”

  “Sorry, but-”

  “Ben, once the trial starts, there’s no stopping it. All offers are off the table.”

  Ben turned toward his client.

  “No conversation required,” Glancy said, holding up a hand. “I did not commit this atrocity. I will not plead guilty to it, not if your offer was one day of community service at a candy factory.”

  “And there you have it,” Ben said.

  “I’m not kidding, Ben. This is our final offer.”

  “And we’re declining
.”

  Padolino’s cool melted a bit. “You’re both being irrational. I’m trying to do you a favor!” He stomped back to his table.

  Despite Padolino’s protest, Ben suspected he wasn’t all that surprised by their decline of his offer, or disappointed. No trial lawyer who’d come this far wanted to pack it in before it started.

  Barely a minute later, Judge Herndon emerged from his chambers, preceded by his bailiff.

  “Oyez, oyez, oyez,” the bailiff chanted. The judge took his seat.

  The trial had begun.

  Leave immediately, the man had said. When it’s safe, I’ll find you, he’d promised. So where the heck was he?

  Loving sat on a bench on the south side of the Reflecting Pool, crossing his legs from one side to the other, staring at the passing joggers, watching the squirrels in the trees, bored to tears. He’d never been good at sitting still. The view was lovely, not only the Pool but of the Lincoln Memorial at the opposite end and all the cherry trees lining the perimeter. But he hated waiting, and he hated all the oh-so-mysterious cloak-and-dagger baloney. That wasn’t how they operated back in Tulsa.

  He checked his watch. He’d been sitting for more than an hour. Even if he didn’t have any other decent leads-or, for that matter, any indecent leads-this was more than he could bear. The guy obviously wasn’t coming. Maybe he’d give up on the chump and pay a visit to Honest Abe. There was a man you could count on.

  He started to push himself to his feet, and just as he did, he felt a pair of hands slap down on his shoulders and shove him back down onto the bench.

  “Don’t turn around!” the voice commanded, stifling Loving’s natural instinct.

  “Why not?”

  “I swear, if you turn around, I won’t tell you a thing.”

  “Fine. I won’t look at your pretty face.” At least, not yet. “So whaddya got for me?”

  “A name.” He was breathless, making an effort to stay low-key and quiet. But it was definitely a man. “Colleen Tomei.”

  Colleen Tomei. Loving ran the name through his cranial database a few times. He’d heard it before, but where? Oh-right. “She was a friend of Veronica Cooper’s. I tried to track her down. Never found her.”

  “And there’s a reason for that.” Loving could feel his informant twisting from side to side, as if checking to make sure he hadn’t been spotted. “She’s been eliminated.”

  “Eliminated? Whaddya mean?”

  There was a long pause. Loving could feel the hands on his shoulders lightening. Was this guy planning to bolt? Because if he did-

  “Look, I can only stay another minute. I’ve taken too many risks as it is. If he found out-”

  “There you go again. Who?”

  The voice behind him barreled onward, ignoring the question. “There were four of them: Veronica, Colleen, Amber, and Beatrice. Four DC girls who liked to party. But they got into some weird stuff. Seriously weird stuff.”

  “Like drugs? Bad boys?”

  “That’s not the half of it. Just listen, okay? They got in over their heads, seriously kinked, and that’s why you’re never, ever gonna find Colleen. But there’s still a chance for the other two. If you move quickly.”

  “And why do I hafta move quickly?” Other than the fact that Ben’s trial had already started.

  “Because you’re not the only one looking, idiot. Do you think he doesn’t know? Do you think he can risk them talking? After what happened to Colleen?”

  “I’m sorry, man, but you’re not makin’ any sense.”

  “I don’t have time to make sense!” Loving felt the hands on his shoulders trembling. “Look, I’ve got to get out of here.”

  Loving almost turned. “And suppose I don’t let you leave?”

  “Then you don’t get the only lead you’re ever going to get!” he said, raising his voice. “I don’t know where Amber is, but I know how you can find her. And I’ll tell you. If you promise you won’t turn around. Won’t move a muscle, and will give me a full minute to get away.”

  “And what makes you think I’d keep that promise?”

  “Because I checked you out before I called. You’re a man of your word, that’s what I hear. Is that right?”

  Loving didn’t answer.

  “Will you keep the bargain?”

  Loving sighed heavily. “I’ll keep the bargain. But why are you helpin’ me?”

  “Because this has got to stop, man. I mean, it was fun at first. I really went for it. It appealed to my dark side, you know? Made me feel like I belonged. But this-what’s happened now-God. It’s just got to stop.”

  “Can’t you stop it?”

  The man laughed. “Me? Against him? Jesus!” Loving felt the hands lifting from his shoulders. “Look, I’m making tracks.”

  “The lead!” Loving shouted. “You never gave me the lead!”

  There was a moment of hesitation. “Martin’s Tavern, after dark. Through the back door, down the alley. Look for an escort service.”

  “An escort service!”

  “When you get there, ask for Lucille.” His hands rose off Loving’s shoulders. “I’m outta here.”

  “Wait!”

  “Remember your bargain!” the man hissed, and Loving could tell from the sound of his voice that he was already moving away.

  Blast! He should look, he knew he should, any other investigator would. But the man had played him perfectly. He’d given his word. He wasn’t going to break it.

  As soon as his watch told him the minute was up, Loving jumped to his feet and looked all around. No trace of the informant. Or, to be more accurate, no one he could positively identify as the informant, given the large number of people surrounding the Pool.

  What had the man been babbling about? Who was this person he was so scared of? And what could those four party girls have been involved with that could lead to Veronica Cooper’s murder in the U.S. Senate?

  He didn’t know. Didn’t have any idea. But at long last, he had a clue. Or a chance of one. If the man wasn’t totally whacked, or playing him. Or covering up something by leading Loving in the wrong direction. It was impossible to know.

  Only one thing was certain. Tonight Ben was going to have to schlep his own gear back from the courtroom. Loving was going tavern-hopping.

  7

  E ven though the federal courts gave attorneys far less leeway during jury selection than the typical state court, and even though the questions were screened in advance and were asked by the judge himself, not the lawyers, jury selection was still an unbearably time-consuming process. This was a murder case, after all-potentially a capital murder case, and one involving a very well-known public figure. It was nearly impossible to find a juror who did not know the defendant or who was not familiar with the case. The best Ben and Christina could hope for was twelve people who claimed that they had not yet made up their minds as to his innocence or guilt and who would not do so until all the evidence was presented. Which was how it should be in every case, of course, but Ben wasn’t kidding himself that this was anything like every case.

  The stickiest point of discussion, of course, was the video. Everyone had already seen it, but just in case they hadn’t, Prosecutor Padolino was desperate to show it to them during voir dire. Not for evidentiary purposes, of course-that would be wrong. He just wanted to be sure the jury wouldn’t be so shocked by the graphic content-especially when the network pixilated masking was removed-that they would be unable to adjudicate the case without bias. Yeah, right.

  Ben did rather like the way the judge conducted the jury questioning. Judge Herndon was a tall man, lean, with a slow, studied expression reminiscent of Gary Cooper in High Noon. He knew Glancy was concerned that the judge would show partisan bias, but as he conducted his measured, careful jury questioning, Ben saw few indications of favoritism. Maybe it was because he knew the press was watching, but he appeared determined to observe each and every punctilio of federal criminal procedure.

  Lawyers were f
orever shading and slanting their jury questions, attempting to preview their case during voir dire. None of that from the judge. He toed the line, never once giving any indication how he felt about any of the parties, the matters at issue, or even the damnable video. He asked his questions simply and for one purpose-to determine if anything in the venireperson’s background, beliefs, or personality would make him or her an unsuitable juror. Did they know any of the parties, object to the senator’s political positions, or have a past experience with romance in the workplace? He let the jurors talk back, even ask questions of their own-something an experienced trial attorney would never risk. Christina took down some of the jurors’ most noteworthy remarks:

  “Any woman who wears underwear like that is asking for it. End of story.”

  “Will the senator be questioned about his surgeries? Because I think he’s had some kind of surgery. And I’m not talking about circumcision.”

  “I’d like to know what time of day it was. If it was during work hours, that means the taxpayer was paying for it. Maybe he was, too, I don’t know. But if it was the taxpayer, I’m angry.”

  “Did the senator vote to send our boys to the Middle East? ’Cause if he voted for that one, you better get me off this jury right here and now.”

  “Only thing I want to know is where the girl got that outfit. I mean, not that I would ever wear anything like that. I was just, you know. Curious.”

  “Way I see it, them boys up in Washington been screwin’ us for years. What’s so special ’bout this one?”

  In a few instances, the judge removed prospective jurors sui sponte. The woman who was way too interested in the deceased’s undergarments, for instance. But for the most part, he left it to the lawyers. After each round of questioning, Ben and Padolino approached the bench and quietly informed the judge who they wanted replaced. Ben took most of his cues from Christina-although he was able to deduce that the “angry taxpayer” needed to go on his own. Time and experience had proven to him that Christina had a preternatural gift for understanding people-far greater than his own. By the time he had a juror’s name down, Christina had figured out her age, socioeconomic background, political persuasion, sexual preference, and whether she was a cat person or a dog person. Christina wanted a jury composed principally of ailurophiles-cat people. He had no idea why. But he didn’t argue.