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R O B E R T   E L L I S

Murder Season

The Lost Witness

City of Fire

The Dead Room

This is a work of fiction. All characters, opinions, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ACCESS TO POWER

Copyright © 2001 by Robert Ellis

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

For my mother, Constance, my brother, Peter, and for Charlotte

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Without the help of many great friends, this book wouldn’t exist. I’d like to thank Neil Oxman and Mark Moskowitz, who have been there for me since this was only an idea. Thomas “Doc” Sweitzer, Ray Noll, and Don Widdoes assisted with research and good stories, all of which helped find the tone for this novel.

Many thanks go to John W. Nelson, Adrianne Carageorge, Michael Conway, Meghan Sadler-Conway, Lisa Cabanel, Bill Wachob, Mike Hamilburg, Peter Hyams, and Tony Michelman for reading early drafts and pointing me in the right direction.

And then there’s Frank Weimann and Kate Duffy, who believed in me. I can’t thank Frank and Kate enough for their support and guidance and hard work on my behalf.

I’d also like to give thanks to my good friend and mentor, John Truby. John’s advice and counsel have made all the difference here.

I’ve saved Charlotte Conway for last because I think it takes a very special woman to live with a writer. We’ve run this mile together, Char, side by side.

Chapter 1

She thought she might be dead at first. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Everything pitch black except for a single bar of light, pulsating at a distance a mile or two off.

The sound of her breath, shallow and faint, began to register through the haze. Her ears were ringing. She felt a draft flutter across the back of her neck, the coolness of a hardwood floor pressing against her cheek. But her eyes remained fixed on that bar of light as it seemed to rush toward her and recognition finally took place that she had been staring at the light beneath the bedroom door not more than ten feet from where she lay.

She guessed that she had been unconscious. She tried moving her legs again, then her arms, even her fingers. Nothing worked.

The door swung open and two men entered the room. They were whispering and seemed agitated, their movement jittery as they rushed to her side not bothering to waste time switching on the lights.

Help was on its way.

She could see bed sheets tossed onto the floor, her legs spread open, a lock of blond hair over her bare chest. A hand rested on her breast, but she couldn’t feel its touch. It was a man’s left hand, and she noticed that he wore a wedding ring. The two men became quiet as the hand moved to her wrist, held it for a moment, then let go.

Why was he shaking his head?

She wanted to say something and tried, but the room remained silent. It dawned on her that her neck might be broken. And she hoped they wouldn’t try to move her until the ambulance arrived.

They were whispering again. Muttering. One of them walked out, she thought to get the door. But then the man returned, dragging a trunk into the room. He plugged something into the wall and began poking the trunk with it. The machine made a loud whirling sound. She watched with blank curiosity as the long drill bit punched out holes in all four sides of the trunk. She could see light passing through it, reminding her of white-hot polka dots.

Then both men touched her.

They grabbed her by the ankles, yanking her across the floor toward the trunk. She tried to scream, shriek. She tried to tell them that something was wrong with her neck, her spine. That to move her like this might mean her never being able to walk again. She explained everything. She pleaded, cried out, unable to get through to them or anyone else, her voice mute. Mere imagination mixed with lost hope.

The two men picked her up and dropped her into the trunk like a rag doll. She watched as the lid closed over her head, hoping that they would look at her eyes as she tried to blink. She was alive, trying to blink.

She heard the latches snap shut, then felt the sensation of lift as they carried her away, through a garage and out to a sports utility vehicle that waited with its engine running. When the trunk came to a rest in the back she saw a face through the holes. Briefly. His skin was smooth and young looking. His eyes a hollow gray that matched the lifeless color of his hair spiked out in a long crew.

The face vanished and she heard the doors slam. She sensed the SUV’s movement, peering out at the light dancing on the window as they drove through the city. Minutes passed as if a short time. Buildings. Monuments. The traffic noise of the capital district fading as they reached quieter streets and finally pulled to a stop. The sound of the engine died off, followed by silence. A long stretch of silence as if she were alone with her heart pounding.

She listened for the doors, but they hadn’t opened. There was something in the background though. A lapping sound, as if they were near water. From the dank scent in the air, she thought it might be the Potomac River.

She focused on the sound of her heartbeat, hoping the two men might hear it as they sat up front without speaking. Then the doors suddenly flew open and the back gate swung down. The two men grabbed the trunk and started running. She saw the man’s face again, teeth clenched as he carried his end of the load. The sound of their shoes smacking against asphalt, then gravel, then the dead silence of grass padding their feet could only mean one thing. She tried to scream, her body bouncing up and down. They were running faster and still faster until the bounce finally stopped and she felt herself being hurled through the air.

There was a great splash. Her head slammed against the side of the trunk, then settled as ice-cold water ran down her face. She was floating. The trunk was floating. She looked through the holes and could see the bright lights of Washington ahead. The Capitol lost in a sea of stars, sparkling as if in a dream.

Someone gasped.

When she realized that it had come from her own lips, she sucked in air and forced it out quickly through her teeth. She heard it. A light whistle. A signal to the two men who must be watching from the riverbank that she was still alive.

She took in another deep breath and forced it out with all her strength. The whistle grew less faint. She did it again and again, the water rushing through the holes and over her knees. She whistled, signaled, kept her eyes on the Capitol. The feeling in her body was coming back, the water rising until it washed over her face. Her chest stiffened and she screamed. It was real this time. She heard it in the river as her lungs filled with water and the trunk began to sway, then pitch forward, tumbling at a severe angle to the bottom.

Chapter 2

Frank Miles grabbed the remote, hit STOP, REWIND, and then PLAY. A political ad flashed up on the TV screen.

It was an off-year election, meaning that the presidency wasn’t up for grabs. Most of Frank’s races this cycle were state-wides and Senate incumbents that would bring in a lot of money by the sheer number of campaigns. Of the firm’s thirty clients, twelve belonged to Frank with the rest split between his two partners. Frank knew that ten of his clients would win, one was ridiculous and had no chance. But the last would be a tough call, his primary focus. A U.S. Senate seat had opened up in Virginia. His client, Mel Merdock, a Senate wannabe, needed a fortune to play and had it to spend. But he was young, green, new to politics. And their opponent was a seasoned businessman who spoke common sense and had a solid political base. Lou Kay was popular and ready, and his consultants had fired their first salvo. A tough negative ad that hit every TV station in the state.

Frank managed to get a copy of Lou Kay’s spot an hour after it had been delivered to the stations. There was a map of the United States with lots of graphics, then shots of Virginia cities and neighborhoods under a cutout photo of Mel Merdock smiling. Whistles and gongs—the whole thing was meticulously put together to look like a game show. And Mel Merdock, Frank’s client and candidate for the U.S. Senate, with his trim body and boyish face, came off naive, even goofy. Let’s face it, Frank thought, his client looked like an idiot.

VOICE-OVER ANNOUNCER:

Question. Of these five places—New York, Washington, L.A., Fort Worth, or the entire state of Virginia—where has Texas millionaire and son of an oil tycoon now turned senatorial candidate Mel Merdock NOT lived in the last ten years? If you guessed Virginia, you’re right! Millionaire Mel Merdock has never lived, voted, or paid taxes in Virginia, and only moved here from Fort Worth to run for office. Does it make sense for Virginia to elect someone who hasn’t lived here? Of course not. We need a senator who will fight for us—NOT millionaire Mel Merdock. Virginia’s Lou Kay. He’s a working guy. He’s one of us!

Frank hit the pause button, staring at the image as his mind chewed over what he had just seen.

“We’re dead,” he muttered finally.

Everyone in the office was packed into the media room, poised for his reaction. He could feel Woody, his partner since law school, scowling at him from the doorway through a pair of thick, wire-rimmed glasses. Linda, new to the firm four years ago, sat at the table in back, holding in a smile with a pen between her lips. His assistant Tracy and the two interns rented from Georgetown, Harry and Tom, were huddled up front, wanting to learn something, waiting for orders as Frank thought about what to do.

Frank knew for a fact that everything in Lou Kay’s ad was true. Mel Merdock was the son of a rich man. Texas oil money. He probably hadn’t gotten a job on his own merits his whole life. Merdock was also a carpetbagger: his only connection with the state of Virginia being that he wanted to fill the open seat. Because they were three weeks from election day, people watching their televisions were beginning to focus on the race. Lou Kay’s negative ad would do damage. The spot’s message would cut through.

Linda crossed her legs and gently cleared her throat. “It’s not like you weren’t expecting it.”

“We’re dead,” Frank repeated. “How many times did they use the word millionaire?”

She gave him a look, flashing that smile again. “I counted three.”

Linda was in her early thirties and had natural blond hair cut just below the shoulders. Her face was refined, striking. Her green eyes, steady and clear, especially when in the company of men, working or otherwise Frank had noticed, where her ease and confidence seemed contagious. Dressed in a business suit made of fine European tweed, the expensive cloth fit the contours of her slender body like a glove. Her skirt was cut well above the knee. Her tight-fitting jacket designed to be worn without a blouse or jewelry. She looked fabulous.

“You’re on the wrong side,” Woody said. “Merdock’s everything they say he is only a hundred times worse and you know it, Frank.”

Frank jerked his head toward the door. “Stewart Brown is doing Lou Kay’s campaign. If I don’t hit back, we’ll lose.”

Frank turned to Tracy. He knew that whatever he did had to be done quickly. Now.

“I need someone to read a spot,” he said. “Call Sammy or Rick. We need to be recording the voice track in thirty minutes. Then call Vintage Video. Tell them to clear out a room. I want to be editing in an hour.”

“You want messengers?” she asked, writing everything down.

He nodded, turning back to Lou Kay’s spot frozen on the monitor and pointing the disclaimer out to his interns. “I want you guys to call the TV stations. Tell them that Lou Kay’s disclaimer violates the election code. It’s too small. Tell them if they air it again, they’ll be fined. And try to act like you know what you’re talking about.”

Harry leaned toward the monitor, adjusting his glasses. “It looks okay to me.”

“It is okay,” Linda said. “But they’ll have to pull the spot to check. It won’t be running.”

Harry laughed as it sank in. Vintage Frank Miles.

It was a trick used to buy time. Frank knew that the television stations would have to pull Lou Kay’s spot against Mel Merdock out of the rotation in order to electronically measure the size of the disclaimer. The size of the disclaimer, PAID FOR BY FRIENDS OF LOU KAY FOR THE U.S. SENATE, measured in scan lines, had always been a sensitive issue because consultants like Frank had always tried to hide it, bury it, particularly when on the attack. Depending on how busy the TV stations were, how much time it took, it was possible that Frank could respond with a new commercial before Lou Kay’s ad did any damage at all.

“What about script approval?” Tracy asked, smiling.

“Forget it,” Frank said as he bolted out the door. “I’m gonna kill these guys.”

Chapter 3

Frank cut through the war room into his office. Beneath neatly framed prints of Jefferson, Lincoln, FDR, Jack Kennedy, and LBJ, he sat at his desk, grabbed his keyboard and got started. This was what he liked most about his job, the thing that kept him alive. Striking back. Going for the takedown with his back against the wall.

“The guy is a lie, Frank.”

He looked up, not realizing that Woody had followed him into the room.

“It’s a lie,” Frank repeated excitedly. “I like that.” He turned to the monitor, repeating the words as he typed them. “It’s a lie.”

Frank’s corner office was larger than the rest. An antique table made of solid cherry and four matching chairs stood to the right of the glass door with bookcases running the entire length of the room. His desk stood in the corner so that he could look through the plate glass walls into the war room and still have a view of the Capitol outside his window. Off to the side, a couch long and deep enough to sleep on sat before a coffee table and two overstuffed reading chairs.

Tracy stuck her head in the door. “Sammy and Rick are both available. Who do you want to read the spot?”

“Find out who’s pissed off.”

“Sammy’s wife just left him. She wants a divorce.”

Frank stopped typing and looked at her with an inquisitive smile. Tracy was the best assistant he had ever had. She was extremely loyal and possessed an uncanny feel for everything happening all over town. A bit on the hefty side and only twenty-five, she had a wholesome face and was engaged to a man who would soon be graduating from Harvard Law School. Frank knew that he would lose her one day and dreaded the thought.

“How do you know that?” he asked.

She shrugged. “He’s on the phone. He’s in a bad mood.”

“Tell him we’ll fax the script over in ten minutes.”

Tracy nodded, vanishing from the doorway. Then Frank noticed Woody standing by the window in another one of his moods. It seemed to Frank that Woody had been in a bad mood since the last election cycle two years ago.

“I’m busy, Woody. What do you want?”

“I want you to drop the Merdock account.”

Frank laughed and turned back to the monitor. “You’re ridiculous. Get out.”

“Merdock’s trying to buy a seat in the Senate with his father’s money. He’s a dick, an incompetent boob.”

“The victim of a negative campaign,” Frank said, typing the words onto his screen.

“He’s morally bankrupt. He’s gonna spend fifty million bucks.”

Frank smiled. “What Virginia needs. No,” he said, correcting himself. “What Virginia REALLY needs.”

“This is the U.S. Senate, Frank. Merdock hasn’t talked about one real issue. He doesn’t stand for anything!”

“I’m sure he stands for something,” Frank said, reviewing his script on the monitor. “If you don’t want your share of the media buy, then don’t take it. Simple as that.”

Woody reached over Frank’s shoulder, opening his desk drawer and taking a cigarette from the pack Frank kept for emergencies. Then he settled into the deep cushioned chair. There was a long silence. Frank glanced at him briefly, checking to see if he was still in the room.

“This isn’t what we had in mind when we got into this,” Woody said finally, almost whispering.

Frank let go of his keyboard and sighed. He looked at his friend slumped in the chair with his feet on the coffee table.

“What we got into was the business of getting people elected,” Frank said.

“No matter what?”

Frank smiled, turning back to his work. “Children and puppies,” he said.

“What?”

“He’s for children and puppies.”

“Fuck you.”

Woody got up and left the room enraged. Frank shook his head. Arguments with Woody had never been personal before. They’d been through too much together. Arguments were a game for Woody, part of the show. But Frank wondered if it was still true. He wondered if Woody hadn’t seen the handwriting on the wall. When they started the business, elections were tough, but day-to-day politics had been a clash of ideas and philosophy brought together by the strength and character of men and women willing to work with each other and compromise for the sake of the country. Now the two parties had circled the wagons, trying to hold their positions whatever the cost. Compromise and moderation were dirty words. Strength and character in short supply. Campaigns were never ending, more like a war with the winner the one left standing. And Frank knew that his partner was having trouble making the transition. If you didn’t kill your opponent, your opponent would kill you.

Frank printed two copies of his spot, looked up and noticed Linda in her office on the other side of the war room. She stood by the window with the sun on her face, gazing at the Capitol as she spoke on the phone and twirled the cord between her thumb and forefinger, probably checking in with a client or campaign manager. As he looked at her long legs, his memories of the body underneath her tweed suit came rushing into his head. The times they’d had when they were together. It was like that every day he saw her. It was like that even when he was alone and only thinking of her in his head.

He missed her. He missed everything about her.

They had met in New York during the governor’s campaign and spent long hours on the road together in what had become an unexpectedly tight race. Linda was a smart campaign manager, had a natural instinct for politics and they had become good friends. When she expressed interest in moving from Albany, Frank asked her to join the firm and taught her everything he knew. Linda was someone he could talk to. Someone who got it the first time. Then, on a snowy night in February, it finally happened. He remembered her green eyes lingering on his mouth. The taste of their first kiss. The feeling in his chest when they touched each other. He could still feel it even though it had ended more than a year and a half ago.

Linda laughed into the phone. Frank tried to look away, but couldn’t. Maybe she wasn’t talking to a client after all. Maybe it was someone more personal, more intimate. He’d wondered for the past few months if she hadn’t been dropping hints that she was ready to begin seeing other men. Just two days ago, someone had sent her flowers but not included a card. He didn’t think that she would never hurt him willingly. It wasn’t in her and they had remained friendly. Still, at a certain point you had to begin living again and move on.

Tracy walked in, breaking the spell as she grabbed a copy of the script. “The Merdocks, Frank.”

He heard the anxiousness in her voice. He looked up and saw Mel Merdock storming into the war room with his brother and campaign manager, Jake. Both looked worried as they headed for the conference room.

“Sammy’s at the recording studio,” Tracy said. “You need to get out of here.”

He checked his watch. “We’ll do the voice track by phone. Have the sound studio set up a patch so I can listen from here. Let me know when they’re ready.”

He walked out, then turned back. Tracy was already behind his desk, dialing the phone.

“You know what?” he asked.

“What?”

“You’re the best. That’s what.”

She flashed an embarrassed smile and turned back to the phone. Then Frank crossed the war room. He didn’t need to ask why his clients were here. He’d sent them a copy of Lou Kay’s attack ad by messenger. It was a mistake, he realized now. He had to move fast. There wasn’t enough time to hold anyone’s hand.

Chapter 4

Frank glanced at Woody brooding in his office as he entered the conference room and closed the glass door. Merdock and Jake turned from the window, the worry on their faces still burning like a grass fire.

Merdock was a young thirty-eight. Frank knew that if his light features and boyish face read like schoolboy charm, his looks would be an advantage. A fresh face going up against all the old hacks voters associated with Capitol Hill. But if it went the other way, if it read like naiveté, which was exactly what Stewart Brown was trying to do with Lou Kay’s negative ads, then Merdock’s good looks would work against them and they wouldn’t stand a chance.

“Did you see it?” Merdock asked, his voice shaking.

Frank nodded. He poured a cup of coffee and remained standing as Merdock and Jake took seats at the table. Jake was younger than his brother, but darker and more shrewd-looking.

“How do you think this affects Mel’s chances?” Jake asked.

“If we work quickly, the spot won’t have any effect at all,” Frank said. “It’s the first hit. And Stewart Brown did just what I said he would. He kept Lou Kay off the air. They saved their money. Now they’re gonna hit hard. Negative all the way to election day.”

“How do we fight that?” Merdock blurted out.

“We hit back harder. And we do it more times.”

Merdock dug into his briefcase, pulling out a copy of The Washington Post. “A poll came out in this morning’s paper. We’re losing. Maybe we should make a change on some of our issues.”

“What issues?” Frank asked. “You don’t have any.”

Merdock dropped the paper, looking at Jake for help.

Frank let their jitters pass. More money would be spent in the Merdock/Kay race than any other Senate campaign in the history of the country. The total media buy would better what was spent on a presidential campaign just ten years ago. Because most of the money would be dumped in three short weeks, it would be a campaign to remember. No one watching television at any hour of the day would be able to hide their head in the sand. Even if they had cable.

Frank leaned over the table, staring at them. “What you say or do after you’re elected is none of my business. Until you’re elected, I write the copy.”

“If I want to win,” Merdock said.

Frank nodded. “We’ve got polling data that shows people who read newspapers think the most important issues are jobs and education. But it also shows that people who don’t read newspapers and watch TV think crime’s the real issue. How’s that possible when almost every study shows crime going down?”

Frank looked through the glass at Tracy waving at him from her desk. His recording session was ready.

“Local TV news isn’t news anymore,” Merdock said.

Frank pushed his coffee aside, untouched. “It’s a crime report designed to scare the shit out of people. So here’s what we do. When we’re on TV, crime’s the big issue. In print, it’s jobs, education and social security.”

Jake leaned forward and grinned. “In other words, we give the audience exactly what they want. But what about their spot? What are you gonna do about that?”

“Turn it around,” Frank said, swinging the door open and hustling toward his office. “Make them wish they never made it.”

Chapter 5

Parked across the street from Miles, Darrow & Associates, George Raymond sat in his Honda Accord trying to get one last look at the place in the afternoon light. He had already scouted the location two days before, but another look never hurt.

The building was surprisingly informal, more like a house than an office, and he guessed that there had to be a history to the place. But what he liked most about the layout was the privacy. The political media firm was the sole occupant and owned the property. Tucked away from the street, the building stood hidden in the trees behind thick, ivy-covered walls.

The front door opened. Raymond watched one of the partners cross the lot to a white Lexus carrying a garment bag and a stack of videotapes. He looked rushed, barreling out of the lot without taking in his surroundings. When the car disappeared around the corner, Raymond sat back, sipping coffee from his travel mug and letting his mind wander.

In spite of the bricks lining the bottom, the trunk had floated almost a hundred yards down river before it finally sank in the Potomac.

He had returned to the river the next day for a casual look around. The water appeared deep and murky. No one would miss her for weeks, if at all. No one would find her for years, if ever. It had been a good spot, he’d decided, even though it had been chosen in haste. And he liked the idea that she was still in Washington, within view of the cameras every night on the evening news. Watching TV would be more fun knowing she was there. Still, he’d heard something just as the trunk vanished below the surface. A whistling sound. He remembered checking for a pulse and not finding one. Beneath the blond hair, her face looked battered. From what he could tell, her neck had been snapped. He smiled at the thought of her going into the water alive and promised himself that when the night was over, he would return to the Iwo Jima Motel and call his wife. Better make sure that she and the kids were okay before taking a long hot shower and getting some sleep.

The world could be a scary place. One could never tell.

The cassette in his tape player switched sides. It was an audio book by his favorite author and included the ten key steps he would need to achieve success in his business and personal relationships. Raymond had listened to all six tapes in the series many times before. Side 1 covered defining the problem issues in his life. Side 2 would be addressing his goals and how to reach them.

As the tape started, he studied his hair in the rearview mirror. He’d been gray for ten years, but liked the new cut. A long crew that had a hint of spike to it. He was forty-five now. And his new cut had done just what his stylist suggested it might: change his self-image by making him look ten years younger without a dye job.

He glanced at his teeth, bright and clean, listening to the tape and deciding that he’d better save it for later. Goals were important and he’d become distracted, his mind skipping over all the good parts. Planning a business strategy was the key step. The one losers always glossed over. He returned the tape to its vinyl case and slid it beneath the seat. Then he picked up his file, opened it to a photocopy and had another look.

It was an article dated six months earlier from The Washington Post. A crime story from the Metro Section detailing the burglary and arrest of two teenagers, Sonny Stockwell and Alan Ingrams. Raymond had gone to the library the day before and found it in the newspaper’s archives as he searched for just the right person.

Photos of the two burglars were included. And as Raymond glanced at them, he felt sure that Stockwell was the leader. The kid looked young for his age, even smart, with a huge chip on his shoulder. The article sketched his troubled history in a single paragraph and even mentioned the block number where he lived with his grandmother. Sonny Stockwell would be perfect. And he lived just ten minutes away in a section of Washington that would never wind up on a postcard because only the forgotten lived there. Just like the girl in the river behind all those monuments. No one would ever remember her. No one would ever guess.

Chapter 6

The edit suite was completely digital and cost between two and three hundred thousand to put together. The lights were dimmed, the medium-sized space always kept dark but for the radiance of monitors set into the main wall of the room. Below the monitors, a workbench made of solid oak ran the entire length of the wall providing easy access to the computer used for generating text, the video switcher and digital audio mixer. Behind the editing console stood the client’s table with two telephones and two richly padded leather chairs. Off to the side, a short set of steps led to a couch and coffee table overlooking the rest of the room.

Although the suite was state of the art, Frank paid the five-hundred-dollar-an-hour rate to edit here because of Kip, a twenty-eight-year-old sitting at the switcher in jeans and a T-shirt. Kip performed magic as if it were routine. What he brought to the edit session outweighed the value of the technology. Even today.

Frank stood by the title camera in his underwear, adjusting a small piece of blank copy paper that he’d torn into a rough-edged, three-inch square. He studied the monitor as Kip typed Lou Kay takes money from special interest groups onto the screen. When they were done, the words were superimposed over the piece of torn paper and looked exactly like a headline ripped out of a newspaper.

“That’s it,” Frank said. “Bring it in and hold it.”

Making television spots was the point at which everything in a campaign finally came together. Frank had always wondered why most political consultants sat on the couch in the back of the room, talking on the phone and not participating in the process except to say yes or no.

Frank returned to the client’s table, dug into his garment bag and pulled out his tux for the president’s fund-raiser. When he spotted the Thermos pot set beside a bowl of fresh fruit, he realized that he’d forgotten to eat lunch. He poured a cup of coffee and sipped it, but the hot liquid only seemed to draw out his hunger.

They had been at it for an hour. Each line of voice-over copy reduced to key words typed onto the screen over different shape and size variations of that torn piece of blank paper. Once they looked like headlines, they were inserted over different shots. Limousines. Faceless men in dark suits carrying overstuffed briefcases through shadowy halls. Power brokers and big shots and what the people hated most about Washington.

Frank thought it over as he got into his shirt. He’d used this technique with success since the early nineties. Headlines gave his words added credibility whether they were real headlines or not. And if they followed the copy, if what the voter saw on their TV mirrored what he or she heard the announcer say, then the spot moved seamlessly, like a child following cartoon lyrics by keeping his or her eye on the bouncing ball.

Frank developed the technique himself in the eleventh hour of a race for attorney general that had gone totally negative. At the time, the mid-western state had been embroiled in an insurance scandal that seemed to lead from the attorney general to the governor’s office. Following the money trail was complicated even for the professionals overseeing the investigation. The acting attorney general knew that if he could keep the waters muddy, he still might have a chance at reelection. His spot came out on a Friday, ten days before election day, accusing Frank’s client of being involved in the scandal. It was a lie, of course, but the attorney general had succeeded in confusing the voters. By Monday morning Frank’s client was nose diving. They’d lost twenty points in two days and things were out of control.

Frank wasn’t sure how to respond. It was the first time that he’d been confronted with an outright lie. And his client, a challenger new to politics with a soft base, was having trouble raising money. Frank knew that he would only get one shot at it, but he couldn’t think of anything strong enough to cut through all the bullshit. He needed something he could count on, something that would carry the weight of fact. All he had when he went into the edit suite was a 3x5 photo of the attorney general clipped from the man’s own campaign brochure.

The clock was ticking with Frank sweating it out at the client’s table, his eyes locked on the photo wrapped in a small piece of plain white paper. And then it hit him. Headlines. Fake headlines. As big and bold as he could make them. Kip came up with the idea of tearing the edges, making them look authentic. Within two hours, the spot was cut, dubbed and ready for overnight shipping to every television station in the state. And it worked. Frank’s client made up the twenty points and added fifteen more. They won the election and the sitting attorney general and governor were convicted and sentenced to ten years behind bars.

The door opened. Frank turned to the sudden shock of light from the hall and saw Linda entering. She seemed worried, cradling files and videotapes in her arms as she sat down in the chair next to his at the client’s table. Frank got into his pants and tucked in his shirt.

“We’re almost done,” he said.

Kip turned to her and smiled. “We’re making another spot?”

“Just a fix,” she said. “Colorado.”

As Kip got back to work, she picked up Frank’s script. Frank sat beside her, pulling on his shoes. The light scent of her perfume set his mind rolling, and he hoped that she would finish her edit in time to make the president’s fund-raiser.

She lowered the script, thinking it over. “You know you could say this about anyone who holds office anywhere, right?”

Frank smiled. “Attitude’s everything. You know that. Let’s take a look.”

Kip rewound the spot and sat back to watch as Lou Kay’s negative ad hit the monitor with shots of Virginia and all those game show sound effects. But within a few seconds, the visuals were smashed with the words IT’S A LIE. Then the screen split in two. On the left, old footage of Lou Kay speaking at a podium faded up with the speed slowed down and the color bleached out to a gritty black-and-white. On the right, the fake headlines Frank and Kip had designed were cutting in one after the other over shots of limousines and power brokers wearing expensive suits and carrying those big briefcases through those marble halls. Lou Kay was fifty, with graying hair and a strong face. If his picture were removed from Frank’s spot, he would look bright, forceful, most would say senatorial. Instead, he looked like an overfed Washington hack.

VOICE-OVER ANNOUNCER:

It’s a lie. What Lou Kay is saying in TV ads like these are absolute lies. The truth is that Lou Kay is running a negative campaign. Why? Because Lou Kay and his big Washington consultants are hiding something. What Lou Kay doesn’t want you to know is that he’s taken big contributions from lobbyists, even special interest groups. What Virginia really needs is a senator who isn’t in the pocket of the big shots. Mel Merdock hasn’t taken one dime from lobbyists or special interest groups. On election day, you can make the difference. Say NO to Washington big shots. Say NO to Lou Kay.

The spot wasn’t subtle, just devastating, and everyone in the room started laughing.

Frank got into his jacket and zipped up his garment bag. When he turned to Linda, he knew that she understood. Mel Merdock didn’t need to take money from lobbyists or special interest groups. He didn’t need to take a dime from anyone. His father had been a millionaire. When he died, Mel and Jake had inherited his entire fortune. On the other hand, Lou Kay had done nothing wrong. His campaign was being funded by contributors from every level of society like any other campaign. But what Frank had said was true. Attitude tilted all the scales. Lou Kay was a bad guy because Frank had made him look like a bad guy and the voice-over announcer said he was.

Linda turned to Frank and smiled. “How to make nothing seem like everything, by Frank Miles.”

“Is this country great or what?” he said.

Chapter 7

“I’m worried about you, Frank.”

Frank noticed the long look on Senator Helen Pryor’s face as she leaned into the table. They were sitting at a booth in the bar at the Mayflower before the president’s fund-raiser.

“One negative campaign after the next,” she was saying. “People are tired of it, Frank. They hate it. And I hate it, too.”

Helen had won the first Virginia seat two years ago and would not face reelection for another four years. She was a young sixty. Her eyes were bright and brown, her hair a mix of blond and gray. She was a handsome woman, Frank had always thought, her tanned face distinctively lined by a life of hard work.

The waiter finally arrived with their drinks.

“The whisky’s the senator’s,” Frank said. “Thanks.”

When the waiter left, they clicked glasses. Frank watched Helen savoring the whisky, then sipped his vodka and lowered the glass.

“What I did to Ozzie Olson got you elected, Helen. We went with what we had at the time. When we learned it was false, we pulled the spot. It got ugly. I admit that. But you don’t need to feel guilty about what happened to Ozzie Olson. You’ve proven yourself ten times over on the Hill. The best candidate won.”

“I don’t feel guilty about it.”

He read her face and laughed. “Yes, you do. I can see you do.”

Her eyes moved to the door and her smile faded. Frank turned and saw Stewart Brown entering, his beady eyes darting between them. Brown was forty-five and heavy, with slicked back hair. His tuxedo looked two sizes too small and he appeared to be sweating. Every time Frank had ever seen him, he appeared to be sweating.

Brown said hello with an awkward smile as he passed their table. Frank nodded back, keeping his eyes on the overstuffed man until he finally reached the bar.

“He’s doing Lou Kay’s campaign, isn’t he?” Helen said in a quieter voice.

Frank nodded. “Stewart Brown is a bottom feeder, Helen. The king of sleaze.”

“What about Merdock?”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s spending his own money, Frank.”

“He’s got a lot of it. So what?”

“By the time most of us can raise real money, we’re pretty well tested. People know who we are and what we think.”

Frank smiled, feeling the vodka and beginning to relax. “But a candidate who can bankroll his own campaign turns it all upside down. Is that what you’re saying?”

“He’s just an image.”

“Pure media. Pure plastic. Maybe you’re right, Helen, but think about it. Once he’s elected, Mel Merdock won’t owe anybody anything.”

She rolled her eyes without saying anything. He didn’t think that she seemed convinced.

Chapter 8

It was bird shit, he realized. Caught in the wipers and smearing the windshield as it mixed with the rain like chalk. Raymond pulled into the lot at Miles, Darrow & Associates and backed into a space at the far end beneath the trees.

He cut the engine and switched off the lights, eyeing the building carefully as he listened to the end of tape 1, side 2: defining your goals and how to reach them. Once your goals were defined, you had to take that first step. The writer likened it to the kickoff in a football game. Once the ball was in the air, your goal was triggered. Success depended on follow-through, breaking your goal down to a series of short tasks or plays and always having a backup plan if something went wrong.

For the past five years, Raymond had worked out of Baltimore, where he lived with his wife and two sons. He’d done well, managing to provide his family with a nice home in a safe upper-middle-class neighborhood. Both of his boys were smart and athletic. And both would be going to college soon. The idea of expanding his client base, working his way into Washington, becoming a player of perhaps international scope, appealed to Raymond not for the fame it might bring him, but because of the higher income it would generate. Besides, Washington was an easy commute. And from what he’d been reading in the papers lately, there seemed to be a growing need for men and women with his experience and qualifications.

Raymond opened his thermos and filled his driving mug with piping hot coffee. As he sipped through the steam, he glanced at the rearview mirror. Sonny Stockwell was sitting in the backseat with his eyes open in a thousand-yard stare. His body was wrapped from the shoulders down in a plastic drop cloth Raymond had picked up in the paint department at Home Depot. Stockwell had actually died on the drive over, less than a half hour ago. Raymond had heard it as his labored breathing suddenly quieted and the car became still. He knew rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet. But the kid’s bowels had relaxed, and despite the plastic, Raymond could smell his shit in the air.

He cracked open the window and tried to ignore the foul odor as he looked back at the building. He knew that the consulting firm occupied the entire structure. The first floor had been relegated to storage, which struck Raymond as odd until he’d gone upstairs and seen the view of the Capitol from the windows above.

Raymond had scouted the location two days before using the psychology of distraction. After making a sizable purchase at the florist on the corner, he had posed as a delivery man. He’d walked right in, getting a feel for the layout as the woman with blond hair opened the flowers from her desk thinking that they were a gift from an anonymous lover. The woman had said her name was Linda. And from his research, he knew her to be a partner in the firm. She had been younger than Raymond expected, more beautiful, though a bit too small-boned for his taste. Still, as Linda gazed at the flowers and searched for a card that was not there, Raymond had a chance to examine the space first hand. The two offices on the other side of the main room. The two men working at their desks separated by plate glass walls. Raymond looked at the tall one in the corner office and could tell that he was only pretending to work. He was sneaking peeks at Linda with the flowers. The other one at the far end, the fat one wearing glasses, had a smile on his face and seemed unconcerned.

The smell of the kid’s shit was getting to him. He glanced at the lighted window on the second floor, took a last sip of coffee and placed the mug in the cup holder. Reaching beneath the seat, he fished out the two guns he would need for the night and made sure that the Beretta was primed and ready. Then he switched off the tape, returned the cassette to its vinyl case and got out of the car.

He took a deep breath of fresh air, glancing at the dead burglar in the backseat before closing the door.

“Wait here,” he told the kid.

A smile crossed his lips. His plan was ridiculously easy.

As he reached the front door, he checked his latex gloves for breaks and had a look at the lock. It was a Gibson Security deadbolt. He was familiar with the model and pulled out his tools from a small case he kept in his breast pocket. Within half a minute, he heard the telltale click, swung the door open and entered the building smooth as a shadow.

The lobby and stairs were lighted. Raymond closed the door and turned the deadbolt, returning his picks to their case and pulling out the Beretta. Then he switched off the lights and started upstairs, his agile body rising silently through the darkness. He had counted the steps while delivering those flowers. Twenty-three, and not one of them creaked if you kept your footing to the far right side.

The door at the top of the stairs stood open and he could hear the sound of someone talking inside. Raymond had counted on him being alone. Keeping to the darkness, he scanned the office with mild concern. The entrance gave way to a large common room with desks and worktables. The offices of the partners lined both sides of the space, separated by glass partitions. Although the computers were left on and provided a dim glow, the only light burning on the entire floor came from the office on the right at the very end.

Tightening his grip on the gun, Raymond stepped inside the room and began inching his way past the worktables until his view cleared. The man was sitting with his back to the door. And he was alone, talking to someone on the phone with his feet propped on the desk. Smoking and drinking coffee, he looked like a slob from the word go. He was saying something about the changes they made and he sounded upset. The changes they made were good, he said. Their message was right, but they still needed more money to get the new TV ad on the air.

Raymond moved closer, adjusting his position so that he would have a clean shot through the doorway without hitting all that glass. The guy looked like a real talker. Raymond would have to wait until the fat man hung up the phone.

Finding a place behind a worktable, he sat on the floor and glanced at a computer monitor. There was a screensaver he had never seen before. King Kong growling. He liked it, but turned away. His ankles itched. As he scratched through his socks, his mind started rolling again in anticipation of the drive back to the Iwo Jima Motel and a long hot shower. Tape 2, side 1 in the series was one of his favorites: my boss appreciates me, I am fun to be with, I deserve what I’ve earned and now it’s time for a raise.

Chapter 9

The president and first lady stood in the center of the ballroom, greeting everyone around them as cameras flashed and photographers worked the festive scene.

They made a good-looking couple, Frank thought. In their late fifties but still energetic and youthful. The first lady wore a silvery blue evening dress that complimented her athletic figure. She was a blonde with hazel eyes and a witty sense of humor. And the president stood by her side in his tuxedo like he was glad to be there. He had played ball in college and there was a ruggedness about him that remained. Frank remembered the effect he had on people when he shook their hands at rallies during the campaign. It was always the same, the moment anyone looked at his face for the first time. Their knees would buckle slightly as if their bodies were melting. Then they’d smile and he’d laugh back, trying to make them feel at ease. The man looked like a president, even then. Like his victory, his place in time, was meant to be.

Frank and Senator Pryor were joined by Senators Barkley and Thomas, two of the boys, as they cut through the crowd heading to their seats at table 1 directly below the podium.

Senator Barkley laughed suspiciously. “We were looking for you two.”

Frank caught the glint in the senator’s eye and smiled. Then the crowd parted and he saw her. Linda had finished her edit, changed clothes and reached the table before them. But there was a man with her and they were holding hands.

“Isn’t that Jason Hardly?” Helen asked.

Frank nodded, taking the jolt, his eyes on their hands and body language. It was Hardly, someone he never would have expected.

Jason Hardly was one of the most powerful lobbyists on the Hill. He moved almost as much money here and there and back again as the Federal Reserve. He was shorter than Frank by five or six inches, older than Frank by fifteen years. His hair matched the color of his eyes, remaining brown except for a hint of gray at the temples. But he was still in good shape, and had that kind of over-groomed look only money can buy.

As Frank approached the table with Helen, Linda and Hardly turned toward them. They were anxious and had the look of being caught at something still not defined. Hardly instinctively grabbed Frank’s hand and gave it a hard squeeze.

“You look good, Frank. Real good considering it’s an election year.”

“You too, Jason.”

Frank turned to Linda, trying to hide his emotions. Her black dress hung from her shoulders by spaghetti straps. Her eyes were wide and had a rich burn to them. There was a frailty about her, a kind of beauty that stung.

It stung because it was out of reach, Frank realized. It was over.

He knew it as he watched Hardly help her sit down. There was something between them beyond holding hands. A certain kind of ease that only comes with familiarity. Frank didn’t think that they had been together in public. Tracy’s radar screen was too big and he would have heard about it. But they had spent time together somewhere, a lot of time, that much was clear.

He glanced over at Helen and caught her staring at him with a pained expression on her face. She had seen everything he had. Before he could settle, someone took his elbow from behind and he turned. It was the president, bright and charismatic, shaking his hand and delighted to see him like they were brothers returning home for a holiday.

“How are you, Frank?” the president asked. “I’ve been meaning to call you all week. We need to talk about—” The president paused in mid-sentence and looked around at the table. Everyone had stopped talking and was listening. Then he turned back and flashed a dazzling smile. “This looks like a pretty rough crowd, Frank. Maybe you should switch seats with the first lady.”

Everybody laughed.

The president pulled Frank closer. “We need to talk,” he said in a lower voice. “It’s important. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

Frank nodded, watching the president return to his wife. Hardly began telling a joke that he’d heard at The Palm over lunch. As Frank sat down, he could feel Linda’s eyes on him from across the table but tried to ignore it. Fight it. He tasted the wine and caught Stewart Brown staring at him from a table in the back by the kitchen. Frank turned away, nodding at Senator Richards, a fragile man of seventy-five seated at table 2 beside a young, sexy woman in a revealing dress.

Waiters began serving dinner. A camera flashed.

Frank looked up and saw a photographer stepping away from Senator Richards. The elder statesman was frozen in his chair and remained speechless. When he turned to Frank for help, Frank looked at Linda seated beside Jason Hardly and was only too glad to oblige. He got up from the table, mouthing silently to the senator that he would take care of the situation for him. There was no reason to be alarmed.

He followed the photographer to the back of the room, saw him take another shot and then pulled him aside. The photographer was a kid, maybe twenty-five, wearing a tattered shirt that could have used some starch and a hot steam iron. Frank smiled, playing it casually. It seemed obvious that the kid was excited to be in a room with the president and first lady and didn’t understand what he had just done.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Bobby Raben, Mr. Miles. I got a shot of you with the president.”

“Thanks,” Frank said. “You’re new, aren’t you?”

The kid nodded. “Freelance.”

“May I see your camera?”

“Sure.”

Bobby smiled and handed over the camera. Frank admired it and looked through the lens. He found Linda and Hardly, then the sexy-looking woman at table 2.

“You see the young woman sitting with Senator Richards?”

He watched Bobby gaze through the crowd until he found her sitting next to the old man. Her breasts were the size of over-fertilized melons. Big and round, they worked like magnets.

The kid laughed. “I just took their picture,” he said.

“You know who she is, Bobby?”

The kid shook his head, then gasped a little as Frank lowered the camera, snapped open the back and ripped out the film.

“She’s what they call a Washington niece, Bobby. When someone goes out with their niece, they don’t generally need any pictures. Memories are good enough.”

“That’s one hell of a niece.”

Frank shot him a look. The kid had a big grin on his face and understood.

“She is, isn’t she,” Frank said as he handed back the camera. “You call my office in the morning and ask for Tracy. I’ll make this up to you. I’ve got plenty of work you can do.”

Chapter 10

Woody hung up the phone and looked at the scripts spread across his desk as he drank the last of his coffee and wished for something stronger.

He’d just finished a conference call with his client in Indiana, the campaign manager, and their pollster. The scripts had been neatly typed before the call started an hour and a half ago. Now they were covered with ink. Words had been crossed out, lines moved, new openings and closings written and rewritten. Woody shook his head as he looked at the changes, knowing that they were made more out of desperation than anything else.

The campaign was backsliding. It was drying up just when their opponent had launched a massive negative campaign against them that stood out. Tomorrow Woody would record the voice track to their response, cut the spots and ship the dubs to the stations. Copies would be sent to his client so that he could show his wife and friends. But the campaign couldn’t raise enough money to play them on the air more than once or twice a day. No matter how good the finished spots might turn out, no one watching television would ever notice them. Their response to the attacks would never be played enough to be seen. And everyone involved in the campaign knew it.

Panic had set in. Reality. Another loss.

Woody checked his watch. It was after ten. He picked up the phone and dialed, hit an answering machine and hung up without leaving a message. He reached for his cigarettes. The pack was empty and he tossed it into the trash. Then he remembered the emergency pack Frank kept in his top desk drawer.

He got up and stretched, glancing at the rain outside his window as he stepped into the war room. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light and he made it into Frank’s office without bumping into anything.

He slid Frank’s drawer open, reaching for the pack. As he struck his lighter, he thought about Frank and Linda and wondered if they’d ever get back together. He hoped they would. Then he lifted the flame to the end of the cigarette, feeling a sense of relief when the nicotine hit his lungs.

“Why are you sticking your nose into other people’s business?” a voice asked.

Woody nearly jumped out of his skin. “Jesus Christ!”

He saw someone standing in the gloom just outside Frank’s office. The figure was inching closer, his spooky face taking on detail as he stepped into the muted light from the monitor glow. Woody backed away, shaking when he spotted the gun.

“Don’t,” he said. “Please don’t.”

The gun flashed. Woody reached for his ear. It felt like a bee sting.

“Are you feeling suicidal tonight?” the man asked. “Or would you rather be the victim of a failed robbery?”

“What are you talking about?” Woody shouted.

The expression on the man’s face was fierce and horrific. His lips were parted revealing clenched teeth. Woody couldn’t stop shaking.

“If it’s suicide,” the man went on, “they’ll look into your past. Someone might guess.”

“What do you want? Please. If it’s money—”

The man cut him off. “You know what I’m looking for.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

The gun flashed again.

Woody grabbed his shoulder. Blood was splashing over his hand onto the carpet, his entire body shuddering now. He remembered the gun Frank kept in the bottom right drawer of his desk and wondered if it was loaded. He needed it to be loaded.

The man waved the gun at him. “Either you’ve got a lousy memory or you’re an idiot. Maybe it’s both. Now stop wasting my time.”

Woody gathered himself, looked at the man and took a step toward the desk. When the man didn’t protest, he took another.

“Okay. Okay,” Woody stammered. “I know what you’re looking for. I won’t waste your time—”

Woody went for the drawer.

The gun flashed and knocked him against the wall. It was a gut shot. Woody reached out trying to block another. Then three more shots came right at him in terrifying succession.

Woody took the hits, tumbled forward and bounced onto the floor. He guessed that he’d been shot in the head because of the blood flowing over his face. He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight back. He saw the man check the drawer and close it, then kneel down and look him in the eye.

“I guessed right,” the man said. “You’re an idiot.”

Woody stared back, unable to speak. He noticed the man’s hair, the gray spikes, and thought that he seemed vaguely familiar. He watched the man get to his feet and walk out, leaving him for dead. He could see his blood rolling across the carpet in quick waves. He could feel sleep coming on and tried to fight the tide as it swept over him. The pain was less than he would have expected and he thought about his friendship with Frank. Their early races together. That campaign in Trenton when Frank was so scared. They were like brothers. Then. Now. Brothers forgave each other, he hoped.

He tried to move again, tried to focus.

He listened to the man who had just shot him enter his office next door and begin rifling through his papers. He was searching for something—opening drawers and closing them. Then Woody remembered where he’d seen the man before. He’d delivered flowers to Linda, beautiful flowers, just the other day.

Chapter 11

Frank stood in the rain, staring at the building from a distance. He was smoking a cigarette and feeling dizzy.

His office was once the home of a very important person, but he couldn’t think of who just now. Frank told friends that he and Woody bought the old building because of its close proximity to their clients. Members of the House, Senate, even the White House this term. He told them that he liked working in a place where it was impossible to forget the past. A living history everywhere you looked....

Frank’s eyes drifted away from the building and lingered on the coroner’s van in the parking lot. He noticed a man in a suit and raincoat cross the street and begin walking toward him. After a few moments, the man reached him, his face hidden in the gloom.

“You the one who called?” Frank asked.

The man nodded. “Detective Randolph, Mr. Miles.”

The detective’s voice matched the one Frank had heard when he checked his voice mail from the hotel bar after the fund-raiser. The voice had sounded clear and steady as he listened to the message over the phone: there had been a problem and he should come down to his office as soon as possible.

The detective stepped beneath the street light. Probably fifty, the color of his skin reminded Frank of newly finished mahogany. He was graying at the temples, his coarse, wiry hair cropped short and even.

“What happened?” Frank asked.

Randolph shrugged. “It looks as if you’ve been robbed.”

Cars were pulling up to the curb, people with cameras—the press had arrived.

Frank glanced at the coroner’s van, then turned back to Randolph. Crossing the street, he stepped over the yellow crime scene tape and walked with the detective toward his office. As he got rid of his smoke and entered the building, he heard the fire go out when it hit the wet pavement. Randolph was on his heels. He could feel the detective measuring him, his eyes working over his face as they climbed the stairs.

The door was open. All the lights were on.

They passed the reception area and stepped into the war room. Frank had always called it the war room because this was where most campaigns were won or lost. On the second floor, sealed from prying eyes. Now there were cops, mostly crime scene techs, going through the clutter on the desks and worktables. Tracy’s desk sat beneath a huge wall board charting their client’s progress through election day. A drawer was open. Frank saw a photographer getting it on film and turned away. Everything in the office was confidential. Until now, he thought.

He looked around, trying to sort through the confusion. His own door was closed, but he could see two men in Woody’s office wearing dark blue jump suits and hair nets, placing papers, a coffee cup, the contents of an ashtray into plastic bags and marking them as evidence.

Then Frank’s door swung open and a woman from the coroner’s office stepped out and went downstairs. Behind her, he saw Woody lying on the carpet with a gun in his hand. There was a lot of blood. More than he had ever seen. And Woody’s eyes remained open, lost and vacant like last week’s catch of the day.

Frank shuddered, steadying himself against a cabinet and feeling light-headed again. He thought he might vomit.

“You gonna be okay?” Randolph asked.

He nodded, his eyes returning to the gun in Woody’s hand. Pearl handled. Why did it seem so strange?

“You don’t mind if I call you by your first name do you?”

Frank shook his head. The even tone of the detective’s voice seemed out of place for what he was seeing. It was too friendly. Too relaxed and calm for a world that had just been turned upside down, gutted and then trashed.

“Thanks,” Randolph said. “They went through his wallet, Frank. Took his cash and credit cards. You keep anything of value around here?”

“There might be some petty cash.”

Frank led the way to Tracy’s desk. The drawer was already half open. The photographer had already taken the shot. It was empty. Randolph reached for the handle anyway, sliding it all the way open with a gloved hand.

“Did he have any relatives, Frank? Parents, siblings, a wife or children?”

Frank shook his head again. Woody didn’t have anybody. Frank knew he didn’t. They’d been friends since law school and started the company right after graduation from the University of Virginia. Small races at first. Local grassroots campaigns propelling them forward until they reached clients with money and clout.

A detective Frank hadn’t seen before poked his head out of the media room and flashed a grin. Randolph nodded, introducing the man as his partner, Ted Grimes. Frank looked him over as he approached them. Younger than Randolph by ten years or so, Grimes had pale skin and slate gray eyes set wide apart in an extraordinarily round head. He stood as tall as Frank at six feet two, but he was built like an ox, his manner coming off simple, maybe even a little crude.

“Frank, did you know your partner kept a gun?” Randolph asked.

“No,” he said. “But I keep one in my desk. Bottom right drawer.”

The detectives exchanged quick glances. Then Grimes crossed the room. The woman from the coroner’s office had returned with a small Asian man. Once Woody’s hold on the pearl handled gun was broken, they began stuffing his round body into a long black bag. Woody wasn’t cooperating.

Grimes gave them a look, his grin seemingly permanent, and stepped around them. When he opened the desk drawer, the gun was there. The detective shoved a No. 2 pencil down the barrel, lifted it to his nose and turned back to Randolph, shaking his head.

“It’s a forty-five,” Grimes said. “The holes in this guy were done by something smaller. They barely poked out the back side.”

Randolph’s eyes met his partner’s. It was a Glock .45, pre-1994 with an extended clip. Unlike many handguns, there was no art to the weapon Frank kept hidden in his desk drawer. It was a people killer with maximum stopping power and probably seemed out of place for the line of work he was in.

Frank turned to the door by the stairs, noticing the bullet holes in the plaster as a cop wearing a raincoat rushed in.

“Heads up, Lieutenant. We just found another one out back.”

Randolph and Grimes started for the door.

Frank followed them outside and along the gravel path around back, the cop showing them the way through the rain with his flashlight. When they stopped, Frank saw the body of a teenage boy sprawled on the wet lawn. A pistol lay beside his outstretched hand. He wore jeans and a light colored jacket, and Frank could see the plume of blood that surrounded a small rip in the material right between his shoulder blades.

“Either it’s raining bodies from heaven,” Grimes said. “Or we had ourselves a shoot-out, fellas.” He moved closer for a better look at the gun. “It’s a Beretta. Nine millimeter. Bet it matches the holes in the guy upstairs.”

Frank kept his eyes on the body as the female coroner brushed by.

“Empty his pockets before you get started,” Randolph said to her.

She nodded and switched on her flashlight. Everyone stood back as she approached the body, step by step, careful not to disturb the scene. Then she dug her small gloved hands into the kid’s pockets and emptied the contents into a plastic evidence bag.

“He’s not carrying any ID,” she said. “Just credit cards and cash.”

She stood up, backing away from the corpse as cautiously as she had approached it and handing the bag to Randolph.

Frank moved closer, leaning over the detective’s shoulder as he held his flashlight to the bag. He saw Woody’s name on the credit cards and knew that Randolph was counting the cash. After a moment, Randolph turned to him, his voice not much more than a whisper.

“Looks like your partner got his man.”

“Yeah,” Grimes added loudly. “Right in the back.”

Chapter 12

Ozzie Olson, former candidate for the U.S. Senate, took another long swig from the bottle and tried to get a grip on things.

He’d heard the story on the radio and parked just across the street. But making out faces through the rain and all those flashing lights was giving him the willies. He tried to shake it off and opened the window. Two figures were wheeling a body out on a gurney and lifting it into the coroner’s van. Then Frank Miles stepped outside, alive and kicking. He was with two men dressed in suits and raincoats. Detectives, Olson figured, getting into an unmarked car and driving off.

The bottle dropped onto the passenger seat, flooding the cushion with whisky. Olson snatched it up and guzzled another big pull. When he came up for air, he capped the bottle and tossed it under the seat.

His head was spinning. He knew that it was Woody Darrow zipped up in that body bag and that there had been a major screw up. Olson wanted to get home. He needed to find out what had happened. What the hell went wrong.

He started the engine and grabbed hold of the wheel. The view out the windshield ran together like a bad watercolor painting until he remembered the wipers. Switching them on, he tried not to look at them pivoting back and forth as he eased the pickup away from the curb.

What the hell happened?

He took a deep breath, keeping his eyes on the road ahead and trying to imagine a straight line. As the pickup gained speed and began to tack like a sailboat, he lost his balance and slowed down some.

There was a cop at the corner, directing traffic in a bright yellow rain slicker that vibrated like a warning light on the dash. Olson knew that the cop was looking at him, staring at him. He pulled forward, the pickup swaying in the rough seas and wind. When the cop began shouting at him and knocked on the driver’s side window, he didn’t know what the fuck to do. He was over his limit. He was gassed.

Chapter 13

As Randolph and Grimes drove him down to the station in a car that rattled and shook and reeked of spent cigarettes, Frank wiped the steam off the window and looked out at the empty sidewalks and the rain spilling over the curb.

His mind was drifting. He could see what had happened that night as if he’d actually been there. Woody at his desk, grinding out scripts, frantically searching for the message that would save his clients even though they couldn’t raise enough money for any message to save them. Then the kid broke in and shot Woody, and somehow Woody shot back.

Woody.

Frank looked up front at Randolph guiding the car through the storm. Grimes sat beside his partner staring out the windshield. No one spoke, the only sound coming from the rain pounding on the roof like a steal drum. When they hit a deep pothole, rode out the bounce and both detectives remained silent, Frank wondered if they were thinking about the seventeen dollars and twenty-three cents Woody had died for. Probably not. This was their life. Their everyday. He guessed that they were immune.

Randolph pulled into the lot and they got out of the car.

The Metropolitan Police Department was still open for business. The lobby, busy like Union Station at rush hour. Frank hadn’t expected it. He knew it was late. Past two in the morning. But all of the interview rooms were taken, and Randolph told him that it would be about twenty minutes before the next one opened up.

When Randolph and Grimes walked off to check their messages and get started on their reports, Frank followed them down to the detective bureau at the end of the hall where a pot of coffee was said to be waiting.

The room was set up like a campaign office with desks pushed together to form long tables assigned to what Frank assumed were various divisions. Where one table would have been delegated to the field campaign in Frank’s world, another to fund-raising, and the next to press relations, here the cluttered tables were dedicated to gangs, robberies and murder. Each campaign a real life race without a day when anyone involved could say it was finally over.

Frank found the coffee pot. As Randolph and Grimes picked up their phones and glanced at him, he poured a cup and decided to wait in the hall.

The coffee had gone bitter, probably brewed two or three hours ago with the shift change. But it was strong and the concentrated jolt of hot caffeine in his system revived him slightly. He checked his hands. The shaking had stopped. Then he noticed the row of doors before him and became aware of the muffled voices behind them.

Interview rooms. Suspects being interrogated.

One door had a sign on it that read Booth 7. Detectives kept walking in and out of the room on the other side, giving Frank dirty looks as he stood there in his wet tuxedo. Their faces were intense, hungry, their words rushing out of their mouths in excited whispers.

Frank managed a glimpse inside before the door swung closed. It was a long narrow room, five feet wide at best. The lights were dimmed, with folding chairs facing what looked like a window that extended the length of the room. Frank could hear the metallic sound of voices over a small speaker in the background. The detectives were watching someone through the mirrored glass in the next room. It seemed like they were getting somewhere with someone important. Like they were having a good time and dinner was served.

Interview 7 finally opened up and that important someone turned out to be a fourteen-year-old boy, led out of the room in handcuffs by two detectives and a woman in a cheap suit who must have been the designated public defender on call that night. Frank looked at the boy’s feet. They were shackled, and it didn’t appear the boy would be headed for the lobby anytime soon. As they passed, the boy smiled at Frank and started to mumble something like you’re next, motherfucker, but a cop jerked him away like a leashed dog before he could say anything more.

After a few minutes, Grimes appeared, opening the door for Frank and showing him into the room that had just been vacated. It looked like a small conference room with a beat-up table and a set of chairs. The linoleum floor was cracked and beginning to break up along the edges. The walls were whitewashed and left blank, except for the long mirror on the inside wall. Before he could ask why they had to meet here, Grimes thanked him for coming, excused himself and closed the door.

Frank sat down at the table. He’d peaked. His body was starting to go cold again and the bright walls lit up by the fluorescent lights felt like they were closing in on him.

The door opened. He heard Linda call out his name and looked up to see her rushing toward him a half step ahead of Jason Hardly. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her head in his chest. He could smell the rain in her hair. He could feel her trembling beneath her jacket as she clung to him.

“Are you okay?” Hardly asked.

Frank nodded. Hardly was standing over them, watching them hold each other. Then he picked up Frank’s coffee and made a point of examining the pasty mixture.

“You don’t look okay,” he said. “Neither does this coffee. I’ll go see if I can get them to make a fresh pot.”

Hardly walked out of the room. Wiping her cheek, Linda turned from the door, her eyes moving over Frank’s face gently, lovingly.

“I’m sorry, Frank. We were together when Lieutenant Randolph called. Jason wouldn’t let me come alone.”

Frank looked about the small room, realizing that Hardly had used the coffee as an excuse to give them time together. It was an elegant gesture and it hurt. Linda had found someone real.

“He thinks of everything, doesn’t he,” Frank said.

She nodded, still holding him.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

She nodded again. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.”

She let go of him and moved to the next chair. As she wiped away the tears that were still coming, the shock of seeing Woody’s dead body staring at him began to lift and Frank got his first glimpse of the reality beneath. In the end, Woody fought for what he believed in and was right more often than he was wrong. He had been the better half of their partnership, Frank thought. The good one, the one with all the heart. Since their beginning, Frank was the one with brains, the one who always seemed to be getting into trouble. In Woody’s death, Frank had lost his part-time guide, his part-time conscience. And there was an emptiness that came with the loss. A loneliness. A fear of the vacuum ahead. Watching Linda struggle with her emotions only seemed to deepen its reach.

“It’s three weeks before election day,” she said. “What are we gonna do?”

He shook his head. They were in a crisis. He needed to think, but couldn’t.

“In the morning,” he said in a low voice. “We’ll call Woody’s clients in the morning. We’ll see who wants to stay and who wants to go.”

She was leaning toward him. He felt her breath against his face and watched her green eyes wander down to his mouth. A moment passed. Before he could tell what she was thinking, the door opened and Hardly walked in with three cups of coffee. He passed them out and sat down beside Linda, sipping the fresh brew. No one said anything. As Frank watched them, he wondered how long they had been together, how far they’d gone.

His mind was drifting again. Going places.

He dug into his pocket for his cigarettes and stepped out of the room. He took a deep breath and glanced down the hall. The lobby had thinned. Two people who looked like worried parents were talking to the cop at the front desk. Frank wondered if they were the mother and father of the boy with the smile who had just been led away in chains. When the public defender joined them, looking tired and bored, his thoughts were confirmed. She was saying something to them. The boy’s mother burst into tears. Then the father sat down in the corner and began sobbing as well.

He heard a door open behind him and turned. Grimes walked out of the observation booth, stiffened and gave him a long look. The detective had been watching him, listening to his conversation with Linda.

“You’re all business, aren’t you,” Grimes said evenly.

It wasn’t posed as a question. Grimes thought he was a mind reader. Frank could see the disapproval on the detective’s face, the attitude and ignorance, before the man turned and made his way down to the detective bureau. Frank lit a cigarette, leaning his head against the wall and trying to suppress his anger. There was no escape, the horror all around. And the night felt like it still had legs.

Chapter 14

Frank’s car was parked on the street across from their office. Linda dropped him off with Hardly asleep in the backseat. There wasn’t much to say that hadn’t already been said. Linda wanted to take a short nap, but would be in by nine to help out.

Frank watched them drive off, then got into his car, keenly aware that he was alone. The sun had just cleared the horizon, the bright light raking the city in what looked like fool’s gold. He switched on the radio and scanned the dial, avoiding the news and talk stations as he made the fifteen minute drive home to Georgetown. He needed a break to sort things out, if only for an hour or two. And he had a hungry dog waiting—a one-year-old Labrador retriever. Buddha had probably eaten most of the furniture and was bouncing off the walls by now.

Frank’s house sat on three-quarters of an acre of prime real estate. A big Victorian with trees and a fenced-in backyard so Buddha could be outside if he wanted while Frank worked at the office. Buddha must have heard Frank’s car pull into the drive and run inside through the doggy door off the back porch. When Frank entered the kitchen, Buddha was sitting by his empty bowl wagging his tail and looking Frank straight in the eye like he’d just been picked as poster dog by the National Humane Society.

The guilt trip worked, as it always did. And Frank put a little extra in his bowl, last night’s dinner and this morning’s breakfast, all rolled into one. As he watched the dog snap up the food, he remembered what his mother had told him as a young boy. She had said that the humanity in a person who didn’t love animals wasn’t finished yet. That their souls were somehow incomplete.

Buddha cleaned his bowl and began licking the floor. He hadn’t been fed since yesterday morning. Frank wondered what his mother would think, whether she would have considered her son incomplete or unfinished in some fundamental way.

Shaking off the guilt, he dumped yesterday’s coffee into the sink. Then he started a fresh pot and went upstairs while it brewed. His head was pounding, and he walked into the bathroom swinging the medicine cabinet open without looking at himself in the mirror. He grabbed the bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol, shaking out two caplets and swallowing them with half a glass of tap water. There had already been four water alerts this year. During the last crisis in August, health authorities warned that the water was unsafe for drinking and might even kill aquarium fish. After they dumped chlorine into the antiquated pipes, the water tasted like Clorox and it had been recommended that people take their showers in ventilated rooms to avoid being poisoned by chlorine gas.

Frank tried not to think about it as he tasted the bleach in his mouth, got out of his tuxedo and stepped into the shower. He could feel the tightness in his body that comes from a night without sleep. And he let the warm water roll over his head, standing under the spill for five or six minutes without moving.

He thought about what Randolph had told him after they finally spoke. The crime scene at first glance. A kid, most likely a drug addict in search of money for another hot load, sees the lighted window, breaks in and kills Woody for his credit cards and cash. Anyone who lived in Washington and read a newspaper knew that the nation’s capital was also the capital of the stickup. Stickups happened every day, all over town. Once they had your wallet, whether they shot the gun, flicked the knife into your chest or decided to run away was a matter of luck and timing. Twenty to thirty people were critically wounded in the nation’s capital every single day.

But Woody had shot back. As Randolph said, there was closure here. Woody had gotten his man.

Frank shaved and got dressed, making sure that the bottle of Tylenol ended up in his jacket pocket just in case. But as he stood over the kitchen sink forcing a piece of raisin toast down, he wondered how he was going to get through this.

He drove back into town, deciding to make a short day of it. As he pulled into the lot at the office, he noticed the yellow crime scene tape had been taken down. He thought he’d still seen it when Linda dropped him off two hours ago but he wasn’t really sure now. Parking in his usual space away from the trees, he unlocked the front door and walked inside the building.

It was still early. No one would show up for another hour or so.

He stood in the middle of the war room, taking it in as he had when the police were there. It was quieter now. Brighter with all the sunlight spilling in from the windows. After a few minutes, he crossed the war room and looked in Woody’s office. The desk faced the door. A couch and coffee table were set along the wall opposite the bookcases and a couple of high backed chairs. It was still and lifeless. But at least the detectives were gone.

When Frank moved down to his own office, he stopped in the doorway, unsure if he could walk inside. There was a blood stain on the carpet where Woody’s body had fallen. A faint smell of urine in the air. He was seeing Woody again. His friend’s pain and fear just before he was murdered. The sound of gunshots. Frank’s eyes began to sting as the image crystallized. After the gunshots began to fade away, he thought that he could hear someone weeping in the distance who sounded a lot like his father.

Chapter 15

Raymond looked at what was left of the Iwo Jima Motel’s continental breakfast. The coffee cakes were gone. So were the toaster waffles. Although he could have gone into the diner and ordered anything he wanted, there wasn’t a TV there.

A pudgy ten-year-old was eyeing the food with him. Raymond had seen him get up from the table in the corner where he had finished breakfast with his family. They were dressed like tourists and looked undisciplined and overfed. Obviously, the fat kid wanted more. Raymond grabbed the two remaining boxes of cereal before the kid could reach a decision. Then he moved down the line, picking out a container of milk that still felt relatively cold, a Styrofoam bowl and the last plastic spoon in the basket.

It was eight-twenty. The Today Show would be cutting to local news in a few minutes. Raymond found an empty table in the back and sat down so that he wouldn’t be facing the TV but could turn to watch if anything of interest came up.

Something of interest came up quickly. They had used the story as their lead-in.

A highly respected media consultant was murdered last night in a failed robbery attempt at his Capitol Hill office. It is reported that the victim managed to shoot and kill the intruder. Both names have been withheld until family members can be located. More later as the story unfolds.

When the broadcast switched to the weather, Raymond poured milk over his cereal and dug into the Styrofoam bowel of Sugar Pops.

The cops had bought it as he had known they would. He had dressed the murder scene with the right evidence in the proper amounts. He had gone the extra mile by hunting Sonny Stockwell down and providing the cops with a perp they could understand and would not question. He’d placed a gun in Stockwell’s hand, another in the victim’s hand and fired them in order to coat their fingers with gunshot residue. Both pistols had been picked up at local gun shows for cash, defying any trace. He was leading the cops along, staggering the evidence so that they’d feel like they were part of the hunt and actually accomplishing something. The victim’s body first, the apparent result of a robbery. Then Stockwell’s corpse on the lawn out back with the victim’s credit cards and cash. He’d used the psychology of discovery to reassure the cops that their first impression was the right one and everything made sense. Once the lab results came in, the case would be closed. Raymond had believed for many years that most cops liked to think they were smarter than everybody else and could be sucked in by the evidence. If he laid the puzzle out in pieces, completing the picture with a small clue here and another there, he could lead them anywhere.

Making the victim’s murder look like a suicide would have been a lot less complicated. He knew from his research that political consultants had business difficulties on a routine basis. Suicide would have been an easy sell. But he also knew that he couldn’t afford the risk. People would have asked why. They would have taken a closer look, paid better attention. Even a stupid cop might have figured it out.

None of this mattered, of course. Raymond understood that he had fallen short and hadn’t delivered on what he’d intended. He’d already extended his visit at the motel with the clerk at the front desk. At some point in the day, he would try to reach his client, whom he doubted was very stable right now.

Raymond finished off his Sugar Pops and got up for a cup of coffee. He’d take it to go, he decided. He’d spend the day listening to his tapes and considering his options. Keep his eyes and ears open, then call his client once he’d had a chance to think things through. Dressed in a gray flannel suit, a shirt and tie, he was playing a business man. Maybe even a bureaucrat. Either way, with his hair greased back and a briefcase in hand, he looked particularly lifeless and could easily get lost among all those drones he’d seen over the past few days working on the Hill.

Chapter 16

Messengers were in and out, delivering flowers and notes of sympathy. Tracy had her hands full.

Frank turned back to Woody’s desk. He couldn’t find his partner’s client files.

He checked the drawers, then went through the stack of papers on the side table. Client files were something Woody would have kept within easy reach because they were used every day. When all Frank found were scripts and polling data, he moved to the filing cabinet on the far wall and started with the top drawer.

Linda walked in, placing a vase of yellow flowers on the side table.

“I can’t find his client files,” he said. “Did you already pull them?”

She shook her head and crossed the room, watching him thumb through the files in the drawer. “I haven’t had a chance. Maybe they were on his desk and the police took them.”

“What would they want with client files?”

The files might have been out, but it didn’t make sense for anyone to take them. The investigation was open and shut. The police already had their man. He was lying in a body bag beside Woody in a refrigerator at the D.C. morgue.

“Let me look,” she said, nudging Frank aside.

She slid the second drawer open. Frank read the tabs, recognizing the names from the election two years ago.

“Those are last cycle’s clients, Linda.”

He took a step back as she pulled the long drawer all the way out.

“Here they are,” she said. “All the way in back.”

He checked the names, wondering what they were doing so deep in the drawer. “But he would’ve used them every day?”

Linda shrugged. “It looks like they’re in chronological order, front to back.”

Frank sat on the couch, watching her pull the files and stack them on the cabinet. They were difficult to reach and the drawer kept inching closed, snagging her fingers. He turned to Woody’s desk on the other side of the room as he thought it over. Woody may have been meticulous, but he was also lazy. It didn’t make sense.

Chapter 17

Peter Riggs sat before the computer at Linda’s desk as Linda and Frank watched from the couch and red leather chair. The door was closed. Riggs worked the keyboard, adding and subtracting numbers as he paged through the company’s books and brought them up to date. About the same age as Frank, Riggs was more slight in body with bristly hair. He’d been their accountant since Frank and Woody opened the business.

“You started out with thirty clients,” Riggs said, looking over his glasses. “Two left. Now you’re down to twenty-eight.”

“Twenty-seven,” Linda said.

Riggs glanced at her. “Who?”

“Eldridge from Tennessee.”

“But he was Woody’s biggest client?”

Linda nodded.

Riggs typed in the adjustment and looked at Frank slumped in the chair. “Well, your total media buy still adds up to almost seventy-five million dollars,” he said. “The firm takes fifteen percent off the top. That’s about eleven million, two hundred thousand. With Woody gone, you split the money not by three, but by only two. After all the bills are paid, even if you reinvest something in the company, you could walk away with five million dollars apiece.”

“Five point two,” Frank said.

Riggs checked his figures again and nodded.

Fifteen percent was a standard agency fee. But unlike an advertising agency that worked by committee and spent money needlessly, requiring months or even years to craft an ad campaign that might never hit its intended target, a decent media consultant knew content outweighed style every time. Armed with the right research, once you defined the message, you could hit your target in a matter of weeks or days and actually compute the response.

Frank could see Linda taking it in. Even without a night’s sleep, her face seemed to glow. Still, the whole thing felt like the reading of a will to Frank. He was uneasy about it. With Woody gone, he and Linda would profit, dividing the take in two. Each of them would be receiving an additional $1.7 million just because Woody had been murdered. $5.2 million in total. The fee might have been standard, but it was a lot of money. And everyone in the room knew that it was a lot of money.

Frank stood up and looked through the glass into the war room as he stretched his legs. Tom was shuffling through polling data while Harry erased Eldridge’s name from the client board mounted on the wall. Behind them, Frank could see the plasterers covering up the bullet holes by the lobby door and two men in green overalls scrubbing out the blood stain on the carpet in his office. In spite of the circumstances, his staff had showed up for work and were dealing with it as best they could. All except for Tracy, he noticed, on the phone with her eyes riveted out the window.

Riggs sat back in the chair, pushing his glasses over his forehead. “All I’m saying is that it’s a two-way split on a big year. One of your biggest, considering it’s not a presidential year.”

“I want their bonuses doubled,” Frank said, still looking at Tracy.

“Are you sure that’s the way to handle this?”

“I want them doubled,” he repeated. “You guys finish up without me.”

Frank opened the door, crossing the war room to Tracy’s desk. She glanced at him for a moment, then turned back to the window.

“What do you think they’re doing out there?” she asked.

Frank noted the fear in her voice and moved closer to the window. He looked at the parking lot one floor below. He didn’t notice at first, but then he saw it. The car that didn’t fit. An unmarked car, with Randolph and Grimes sitting in the front seat.

Harry and Tom moved to the far window. Linda walked out of her office with Riggs, the meeting apparently over, and joined them. Frank could see the anxiety in their faces. Paranoia was in the air. When the locksmith suddenly appeared, he had an audience ready and waiting.

“You’re all set,” the locksmith said. “These are the new keys to the front door.”

He handed Tracy five copies of the new key. As Tracy passed them out, Frank took his and noticed the small, timid man staring up at him.

“Mind if I keep the old one?” the locksmith asked.

Frank shrugged. “The old what?”

The locksmith brought his hand forward, displaying the lock. “There’s nothing wrong with it. Look. Not even a scratch.”

Frank nodded, wondering why the sight of the lock seemed so odd. Then he looked outside at the detectives in the parking lot and headed for the door.

Chapter 18

Frank legged it across the lot and looked inside the car. Randolph sat behind the wheel with Grimes beside him. Lunch was spread out on the seat and dash.

“You’re scaring the shit out of my staff,” Frank said. “What are you guys doing here?”

Randolph gave him a look. “This is the first chance we’ve had to eat. We’ve been at it all night. Relax, Frank. We were just on our way in.”

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Randolph nodded at the backseat with a tuna sandwich in his hand. Frank hesitated a moment, but climbed in. As Grimes turned and leaned against the door to face him, Randolph began paging through a file until he found what he was looking for.

“We IDd the kid,” Randolph said, taking a last bite of his sandwich. “Sonny Stockwell. He had a record. He got picked up for burglary six months ago with a buddy of his.”

The detective passed an 8x10 photo over the seat. Frank eyed it carefully. It was a mug shot of the boy that he’d seen behind the building just twelve hours ago. Woody’s murderer, staring back at him with attitude.

“He looks young. How old was he?”

“Eighteen,” Grimes said. “On his way to twenty to life.”

Frank ignored him and turned back to Randolph. “What about his friend?”

“Alan Ingrams? He works at a Burger King. His boss says he was still punched in around the time Woody got shot.”

Frank passed the photo back, unable to hide his concern. Randolph must have known what was on his mind.

“Stop thinking it, Frank. The kid got Woody and Woody got the kid. It’s over. There’s no reason for anyone to come back.”

Randolph lit a cigarette and reached for his Coke. Frank sat back in the seat, noticing that he still held the key to the new lock in his hand.

“How do you think Stockwell got in?” he asked.

Randolph’s eyes flickered. Grimes’s stupid grin was back.

“It’s an office,” Grimes said. “He probably used the front door.”

“The door’s locked every night at six.”

“Maybe someone forgot,” Grimes shot back.

Frank dug inside his pocket for his key ring. This was Washington. No one forgot.

“We locked up early last night,” he said. “I had an edit and so did Linda. Then the president’s fund-raiser, Grimes.”

“He could’ve picked it.”

“I thought nothing was found on the body.”

Grimes curled his lip and then laughed. “We’ve got a wise guy here. This is why they call you guys spin doctors, right? Two plus two equals three or five depending on who you’re trying to screw?”

Frank opened the door and got out. He’d had enough of Grimes.

Randolph started the car, flashing a tired smile at him. “There a lot of ways he could’ve gotten in, Frank. It’s been a long night and this thing’s open and shut. Do us all a favor. Go back inside and leave it alone.”

Chapter 19

Ozzie Olson followed the guard down the hall to the judge’s chambers and knew that he had to make this quick. It would be difficult. He had a history with Judge Taylor. At one time, before Olson was destroyed and eaten up by the darkness, they had been friends.

The guard swung the door open, peeked inside, then nodded at Olson that it was okay to go in. Olson lumbered through the doorway and stopped, the judge studying him carefully from his desk. Judge Taylor had been at it for thirty years and was known for the poker face he spawned during trial. Today, his grizzled face clearly betrayed what he was thinking.

Olson already knew how bad he looked. Even worse from spending a drunken night in jail. The dark circles beneath his eyes were digging into his cheeks and had turned black. His skin had lost its color. He hadn’t seen the judge for several years. Olson had begun to gray since then and had gained considerable weight. Up seventy pounds from two-fifty. At only six feet one, Olson didn’t need to be reminded that he wasn’t carrying it well.

The guard left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Have a seat, Ozzie,” the judge said in an even voice.

Olson sat down before the judge’s desk, watching the man lean back in his chair and review his file. A lecture was coming. Maybe a second chance.

Judge Taylor began reading the charges aloud. “Driving while under the influence. Resisting arrest. Looks like shit.” The judge sat up, eyeing him again. “Someone could have been killed, Ozzie. What’s happened to you?”

Olson’s eyes stirred, the judge waiting for some kind of response. He wouldn’t give him one. The question was too stupid. The answer too fucking obvious. He’d been ruined. Humiliated. Dragged through the coals by Frank Miles.

“I brought you into my chambers as a favor,” the judge said. “The press is out there waiting to take another shot at you. I wanted to spare you the embarrassment. So you ran for the Senate and lost. It’s been two years. Who was that guy who screwed you? Frank Miles. I remember now. You used to be a good lawyer. A smart attorney. You need to get over it, Ozzie. You need to put this behind you.”

Olson glanced at the wall and spotted a photograph of the judge standing with Senator Helen Pryor, his opponent in the election. They wore big smiles and it looked like their teeth had been capped. Averting his eyes, Olson hoped the judge hadn’t noticed that he’d seen it. He had a headache chipping away at the right side of his head. He didn’t want the man’s sympathy. Not now. Not ever. And he’d worked in the building enough during his former life to know where the exits were located so that he might avoid the press.

“I appreciate the favor, Your Honor. But I filed my paperwork two hours ago. I’d like to go home now.”

Judge Taylor dropped the file and gave him a long look. “Bitterness isn’t the answer, Ozzie. You need counseling. Lots of it, I’m afraid.”

Olson wanted to say “fuck you,” but didn’t. Instead, he took the easy route. He agreed to counseling, both psychological and religious. He had the shakes and needed whisky. He would have agreed to anything just to get out. And he did, five minutes after Judge Taylor signed his release. Olson walked through a rear exit, up an alley and grabbed a cab when he hit the street.

Chapter 20

There was a new wrinkle in the Mel Merdock/Lou Kay race for the Senate that Frank hadn’t anticipated. A special interest group he had never heard of was entering the contest without an invitation. Apparently they had enough money to produce ads and get them on TV.

Frank sat in the media room, watching a copy of the spot with Tracy.

An actress playing a girlish housewife stood before the stove making dinner in a dress and jewelry. Her husband, another actor, sat at the kitchen table ignoring her and their infant child while reading a newspaper. When Frank noticed the crucifix on the wall behind them, the picture became complete. It was a distorted view of the past, a horrific view of the way things were and should be.

“I was talking to Jane today,” the wife was saying, “and I forgot why we’re not voting for Lou Kay.”

The husband lowered his paper and looked at his wife as if she were his misguided daughter. “We’re not voting for Lou Kay because he’s bad, honey.”

“But why is he bad?”

The husband smiled. “Lou Kay doesn’t share our values.”

“He doesn’t share our values,” she repeated.

“You tell Jane that’s all she needs to know. I’ll talk to Dick on Sunday.”

As the wife nodded, good girl that she is and was, the voice-over kicked in and church bells rang. “Paid for by the Committee for the Restoration of American Values and Ethics,” the announcer said.

Linda burst into the room laughing. “What was that?”

Frank hit the remote and smiled at her, wondering if the ad would change the dynamics of the race. The spot was clearly against their opponent, Lou Kay. But it was embarrassing, and too poorly made to give his client Mel Merdock any lift. If the ad was played enough to be seen, some people would laugh, but others might become angry. The spot could potentially backfire, blowing up in his client’s face. Under the First Amendment, independent expenditures had the right to say anything they wanted to say. But Frank couldn’t help them deliver a professional product. He couldn’t even contact them without breaking the law.

“It’s running on two stations,” Frank said, handing the tape to Tracy like it might be soiled.

“Who are they?” Linda asked.

Tracy checked her notepad and shrugged. “The Committee for the Restoration of American Values and Ethics.”

“Another special interest group,” Frank said. “You ever hear of them?”

Linda shook her head. “What’s their special interest?”

“Same as ours,” Frank said, thinking it over. “Only they don’t know what they’re doing.”

The phone rang and Tracy picked it up, rolling her eyes. Reporters were beginning to check in, asking questions about Woody’s murder. They wanted an interview with Frank.

Frank refused the call and told Tracy to put the service on for the rest of the day. Then he chased her and the interns off to a restaurant with the company credit card. When they left, he checked in on Linda. She was sitting before her computer struggling to write a spot she would have blown through in ten minutes if this had been any other day. Her glow had faded, she looked exhausted, and it didn’t take much to convince her to go home early as well.

After he heard the door close, Frank switched off the overhead lights and poured a cup of coffee. He cupped the mug, letting it warm his hands as he moved to the window. He could see Linda getting into her black Explorer and watched as she drove off, probably to be with Jason Hardly. It would be a night of holding each other, comforting each other, then who knows what, followed by deep sleep.

Frank stepped into his office, trying not to think about it as he sat down at his desk and took in the silence. He noticed a copy of the latest Merdock poll and pushed it aside. Tracy must have left it for him. Frank didn’t need to read it because he already knew the results. Lou Kay was winning. His spots were made by Stewart Brown. They weren’t laughable. And they weren’t a distraction. Brown’s ads for Lou Kay were slick and tough, the message so concise, no one could possibly miss it.

“Three more weeks,” he said aloud.

Somehow he had to get through the next three weeks before he could let go.

He took a sip of coffee and leaned over in the chair. The blood stain remained on the carpet just beside his feet and he studied it. The maintenance people had worked all morning and gotten nowhere. Frank guessed that the stain would be there as a reminder of his friend until the day he replaced the carpet.

And so would that nagging feeling that something was wrong.

He cracked the window open and looked outside at the Capitol dome looming in the afternoon sky. He couldn’t place the feeling, couldn’t ground it in thought. But it was there, without shape or body, just below the surface.

Something was wrong.

Chapter 21

By seven-thirty he was in his car, making the short drive over to the Lincoln Memorial. It was a warm night for mid-October, the air very still. A perfect evening for tourists. Frank had always enjoyed trying to pick out the tourists, which was difficult here because the sight of Lincoln keeping watch over the city and nation seemed to have an impact on everyone, even him, no matter how many times he looked at it.

He found Mario waiting for him on a bench by the Reflecting Pool. Frank sat down, his eyes on the people taking pictures of themselves before the memorial.

“I need something on Lou Kay,” he said. “They’re killing us.”

“I thought Merdock’s money had the thing locked.”

“Stewart Brown’s killing us. I need something on Lou Kay and I need it now. And while you’re at it, I want background on the Committee for the Restoration of American Values and Ethics. They’re on our side, but their spots eat shit like they’re from Mars.”

Mario smiled as Frank settled. He was a small, thin man in his early forties and wore a blue-gray herringbone sport jacket along with his mustache and glasses. He had been doing Frank’s negative research for the last five election cycles and was extremely thorough, the best in the business. Over the years, they had become friends.

“Lou Kay gets his car washed every Saturday,” Mario said. “He’s been going to the same carwash for the last ten years.”

“So what?”

“The carwash hires illegals. Indirectly, Lou Kay’s hired illegals for the last ten years.”

“This isn’t a House seat, Mario. I need better than that. Something real, or almost real.”

Mario paused a moment, then asked, “Why are we meeting here? Why not at the office like always?”

Frank lit a cigarette without answering.

“Are you okay, Frank?”

“The day Woody died,” he said in a quieter voice. “We argued, Mario. I threw him out of my office.”

“Woody was losing a lot of races. I did his research. Every time we met he was a wreck.”

“His client files aren’t where they’re supposed to be. His office isn’t right.”

“Washington’s the stickup capital of the world, Frank. What happened to Woody goes on every day. Maybe you’re just feeling guilty. About the way things were left, I mean.”

“Maybe.”

Frank waited for a couple to pass with their two young children. He guessed that they were on vacation, like so many other families who visit Washington to see the buildings, museums, maybe even take in an afternoon at the Capitol, watching their government in action. They seemed like a nice family. They looked innocent, and he hoped that they wouldn’t get mugged. When they were out of earshot, Frank turned back to Mario and lowered his voice.

“The cops can’t even explain how the kid who shot Woody got into the fucking office. Something’s not right.”

“Jesus, Frank.”

He saw Mario’s concern, but ignored it. Frank had spent the afternoon trying to satisfy his doubts, but couldn’t. He’d checked Woody’s filing cabinet again and sliced his finger open as the drawer swayed shut. He’d gone downstairs and examined the front door. The wood was intact, the paint not even scratched. Every window in the building was secure. Frank realized that his doubts were nothing more than loose ends. Why Woody’s current files were buried in the back of a drawer, or how Sonny Stockwell managed to get into a locked office without tools didn’t mean that the kid hadn’t murdered Woody. What bothered Frank was that both questions defied explanation. Even more troubling, Randolph and Grimes were seasoned detectives and didn’t seem concerned. In a political campaign, loose ends had a way of unraveling until they blew something a part. Usually a candidate’s life, along with their hopes and dreams.

Mario reached inside his jacket for a pen. “Before you go crazy with this, let me check these cops out. What are their names?”

Frank got rid of his cigarette, knowing that he had one more stop to make before he could go home. “Max Randolph and Ted Grimes,” he said.

*          *          *

It was a Baptist church set in a neighborhood where you kept your guard up. Poverty held onto the people who lived here with both fists and wouldn’t let go.

Frank could hear the choir practicing as he walked up the steps, cracked open the door and peeked inside. They were standing before the music director, trying to concentrate on their sheet music as they spotted him entering.

Frank found the pastor waiting for him in the last pew. He was a gentle giant of sorts; a big man with a wise face whose firm presence remained formidable despite his age. He wore expensive suits, the rings on both hands standing out against his dark complexion the way gold should. Reverend Doc Neilmarker had helped Frank and Woody with voter turnout for years. He controlled the poorest sections of the city and had a political reach that carried into Virginia and Maryland, even North Carolina. If anyone could help him, Frank knew that it would be Neilmarker.

He made his way down the aisle. Neilmarker rose, grabbing his hand and shaking it firmly.

“Frank Miles,” he said with a smile that betrayed his sadness. “It’s been awhile. Wish it could be under happier circumstances. How can I help?”

Frank met his eyes. “The kid had a friend, Doc. Alan Ingrams. I need to talk to him.”

Neilmarker nodded, thinking it over as he sat down and invited Frank to join him. “Woody was a good man,” he said.

Chapter 22

Frank made a right on New Hampshire Avenue and stopped at a diner off Dupont Circle. He ordered the house special, shepherd’s pie. When the plate arrived at half past ten, it looked like slop and had no real taste other than salt. But anything would have done, given the circumstances. He had been up for over forty hours, the length of most people’s entire work week. Getting food in his stomach was a question of mass, a matter of physics rather than chemistry or art.

When he finished, he paid the bill and walked up the block to a convenience store on the corner. He needed an emergency carton of cigarettes to get through all this, at least that’s what he kept telling himself. But when he put the carton down on the counter, the man at the register wearing a beard and turban asked to see his identification. Frank was forty and needed sleep. There were mirrors hanging from the ceiling so that the cashier could spot shoplifters. Judging from his own reflection, Frank looked like he had been tied to the back of a car and dragged through ten miles of stop-and-go traffic. But he laughed it off, showing the man his driver’s license, and walking out of the store with what they were calling drugs these days and enough matches to light every one of them.

He made the drive home in ten minutes. When he opened the front door, his dog wagged his tail in greeting and wanted to play.

“Good boy, Buddha. I’ve had a rough day, too. You want dinner or what?”

“I already fed him.”

He flinched, then saw Linda standing in the kitchen doorway. She was wearing a bathrobe and holding a carton of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“I couldn’t sleep. I was having nightmares thinking about Woody. You don’t mind, do you?”

He didn’t mind and shook his head.

Walking into the kitchen, he grabbed a glass and filled it with ice. The bottle of vodka was in the freezer. As he poured a drink, he glanced at Linda standing before him in her bathrobe and decided that he’d better make the drink bigger. She no longer looked tired. He could smell his own shampoo in her hair, the freshness of his soap on her skin mixed with the scent of her body lotion. She must have just showered.

“You can’t sleep,” he said. “And I feel like I’m eighty years old. How did you get in?”

She smiled. “I kept my keys.”

“I did, too. What’s Hardly gonna say?”

“Jason’s in Wilmington with a client, but don’t get any ideas. I’m sleeping in the guest room.” When she noticed the size of his drink, she added, “You better go easy with that. The president called. He’s picking you up in twenty minutes.”

Frank nodded, following her into the study. It was just after eleven and he guessed that the president’s cabin fever had made a comeback.

“He got me on my cell phone,” he said, yawning.

As Linda curled up on the couch, Frank watched Buddha hop up beside her, snuggling his head into the fold of her legs. He sipped his drink and opened the cabinets to his media center, revealing three televisions switched to the network affiliates with the sound muted. This was the way he usually ended the night—scanning local news broadcasts for political ads. Once the news readers had informed everyone of the latest beating, rape, or murder, once they broke from the horror they were creating to the commercials that paid for it, only then did he bother to turn up the sound. Even his worried client had mentioned it. Local TV news just wasn’t news anymore.

“What’s so important that the president wants to talk to you this late at night?” Linda asked.

“He didn’t say.” Frank grabbed the remote, looking down at her as she settled. “Want to hear a good one?”

She hesitated a moment. “Is it dirty?”

“I’ll let you decide.”

She smiled at him and then nodded like she was ready. Frank gave her a long look, then sat down on the couch with Buddha between them.

“What if Woody’s murder didn’t have anything to do with a robbery, Linda? What if it was something else?”

She held the glance, her eyes as gentle as her voice. “I think you’re wishing it was something else because it seems like such a waste.”

She lowered her gaze and began petting Buddha. Frank glanced at the televisions. A spot came up on channel 4 and he hit the sound.

It was Stewart Brown’s second spot for Lou Kay. Another hatchet job on Mel Merdock’s good name. Two panels were flipping back and forth. Merdock’s photo was on each side, along with the word Politician on the front, and Texas Millionaire on the back. It didn’t matter that Mel Merdock had never run for office before. The word politician was a red flag to the common TV viewer. If someone ran for public office, then they must be a politician. Guilt by association. The pictures weren’t much better than the words. A shot of a post office box was included with a graphic drawn by hand indicating it as Merdock’s residence and only tie to the state of Virginia. Clearly, Stewart Brown had found his message and would be pounding it home until election day.

VOICE-OVER ANNOUNCER:

Mel Merdock, the politician, says that he believes in tax fairness for working-class families. But Mel Merdock, the Texas millionaire, tells the IRS that this P.O. Box is his current residence to avoid paying his fair share of taxes. Mel Merdock, the politician, says that he’s ready to represent Virginia in the U.S. Senate. But Mel Merdock, the Texas millionaire, says he’ll move to Virginia only if he’s elected. The truth is that we Virginians don’t need a politician or a Texas millionaire representing us in Washington. We need Virginia’s Lou Kay. He’s a working guy. A family man who shares our values. He’s one of us.

Frank hit the mute button with his thumb. The spot’s message felt like a knockout punch. Blood was running. When he turned to Linda, she was laughing at the shock of the blow.

“You’re right,” she said. “Merdock’s dead.”

Frank smiled back at her, shaking his head. The phone rang and he picked it up, knowing who it was.

“Did you see it?” he heard Merdock ask in a panicky voice. “Did you see it?”

Frank cleared his throat, looking at Linda as he lied. “Relax, Mel. It’s not that good. We’re gonna be fine.”

“You really think so?”

Linda was holding her hand over her mouth, fighting the laughter. Frank turned away, but the sound of fear in his client’s voice only made it worse.

“It’s part of the business,” he said into the phone.

“I think we need to meet, Frank. Tomorrow at the house. What’s your schedule like?”

“I’ll call you in the morning and let you know.”

“Oh, and Frank,” Merdock said, hedging. “Would you mind if my wife sits in?”

Frank grimaced, lying again. “It’s okay with me.”

He hung up the phone, grabbing his glass. He could feel Linda’s eyes on him.

“Your client isn’t handling it well,” she said. “Let me guess. The wife’s in.”

He smiled as he chewed it over. Linda knew the score as well as he did. When things start to get tricky, the wife knocks on the door. Then things get really tricky.

“She’s in,” he said, laughing.

A horn tapped outside—the president in his unmarked limo. Frank watched Linda petting Buddha. The dog had worked his head up from her legs onto her lap. Her hands were gently stroking the fur around his neck and ears. Buddha was loving it. Frank got up off the couch and checked his pack of cigarettes, realizing that he was jealous of his own dog.

“You’re smoking again,” she said.

“I’m not sure. The jury’s still out.”

“You were smoking last night and I saw the carton in the bag on the kitchen counter. You’d quit for almost two years.”

“One year, ten months and sixteen days. The week after we had that place on the water in Chincoteague.”

Linda looked back at the dog. And Frank was sorry that he’d mentioned it before it even came out of his mouth. They had rented a house in Chincoteague after the last election. It was fall on the Atlantic shore and they had the beaches to themselves. Cool and breezy weather, they spent their afternoons wrapped in sweaters and blankets, drinking wine and making love in the open air with long walks in between. On the days that it happened to rain, they burned wood in the fireplace and left out the walks. One week later, their relationship was over. That’s when Frank decided that the only way to kill the pain was to add another. He had quit smoking when Linda left him and it seemed to help. Like any addiction, the withdrawal destroyed his ability to concentrate on anything other than beating what he was craving.

The car horn tapped again, the president waiting. Frank gave Linda a look as he walked out.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, closing the front door and double checking the lock.

Chapter 23

An unmarked limousine with tinted windows idled at the curb. Frank opened the rear door, saw the president and got in.

“You look tired,” the president said.

As the limousine drove off, three parked cars suddenly came to life, pulling into the street behind them with their lights on. Frank noted the caravan of Secret Service agents following them through Georgetown. He turned, looked up front at the agent beside the driver with the machine gun resting on his lap, then to the president staring out the window. They were passing the bars and restaurants along Wisconsin Avenue. Normal people on the sidewalks, talking and laughing and living their lives out in the open. The president’s eyes seemed to sparkle as he watched them being free.

“You get the flowers Cindy sent over?” the president asked.

“Thanks.”

“You gonna be okay?”

Frank nodded, watching the president’s eyes drift back to the window.

“I’ve been locked inside the White House for a year and a half now, Frank. No casual cups of coffee. No walks with my wife on a Sunday afternoon.”

“You’ve got your own 747 and you never have to stop at red lights. How bad can it be?”

The president smiled. “You tell me. I’m getting hit on cable every night. Radio’s a joke and the House is overrun with crackpots. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. I remember the talks we had during my campaign. I just want to make sure that when everything’s said and done, it was worth it.”

What the president had just said was true. Since Kennedy’s assassination, Nixon’s resignation and the failed coup d’état attempt over Clinton’s presidency, the office had become more of an interruption in one’s life than an achievement. You lived each day in a cage with glass walls, trying to keep your personal life a secret. Appearances being everything in a media-driven world, any misstep or indication of your humanity came off like evidence that you might be weak or unfit. Frank wondered how the people whining on talk radio would handle it if they were told that they had to live inside a glass box for four years. And that they should consider themselves lucky if they got to stay for eight years rather than four.

“There’s no reason to worry,” Frank said. “We’re gonna do well this cycle.”

“What about Merdock? His wife called. She wants to set up a campaign appearance.”

Frank reached into his pocket and fished out that bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol he’d been carrying for backup.

“Merdock’s in a tough race,” he said.

“Lou Kay’s spots are good, Frank. I’ve seen them. They’re real good. I think Stewart Brown’s hungry. Are you gonna pull this one out or what?”

“We’ve got the money.”

Frank had made the midnight drive with the president ten to fifteen times before and knew it could go one of two ways. Long or short. When they made a left on M Street, passed Columbia Hospital and made another left on New Hampshire at the Marriott, Frank knew that he was in for the long way around town. After touring Dupont Circle they would head south for a review of the monuments, then hit the bars and restaurants on Pennsylvania southeast of the Capitol. It would be an hour and a half before he was home again. Maybe even longer depending on how many people were on the sidewalks once they reached Capitol Hill. By the time Frank got home, Linda would be in the guest room with the door closed.

“It’s an off-year election,” the president said. “My two biggest bills are ready to go. The two reasons I ran for office. I’ll need a majority in the Senate to get them through.”

“You’d need more than a majority. You’d need eight seats, maybe more with the way they’re voting.”

The president was staring at him. Frank tossed the Tylenol into his mouth and swallowed the caplets with water from a set of the president’s mobile crystal glassware.

“Is Merdock gonna win or not, Frank?”

“My advice is to never count on anything. But yes, when it’s all said and done, Merdock’s the next senator from Virginia.”

Frank slipped the bottle of Tylenol into his pocket, knowing the president’s eyes were still on him.

“That’s not exactly the way I wanted to hear you say it, Frank.”

“You know what campaigns are like. His is worse than that.”

They were passing shops, restaurants, more people walking.

“If you set something up, I’ll do it,” the president said. “I need him to win. At all costs. Mel Merdock has got to win that race.”

Frank nodded. The president was gazing out the window again, his eyes eating up all the people on the sidewalks. Frank looked at the water in his glass and drank what remained. Then he sat back in the cushioned seat letting his mind roll through the possibilities. It would be okay, he decided. As long as he came up with the impossible and turned things around. He knew that Merdock’s campaign would be won or lost on television. Not through mailings or personal appearances or even shaking people’s hands. An idea began to form. On television, he thought to himself, with maybe a little help from radio. He’d have to think it over. He wasn’t sure it had ever been done before.

Chapter 24

Frank entered his office, dropping his bags from an early morning edit on the couch. He looked through the glass and could see Linda sitting before her computer reading something from the screen into her phone. As his eyes drifted away, he noticed an overnight bag hanging on her door.

His edit session had gone well, the Senate campaign for a client in Illinois coming together without much effort. It hadn’t started out that way. The opponent’s party had targeted the seat and found a candidate from the business sector who was well funded and attracted early interest. In his mid-forties, articulate and handsome, the man owned a successful firm that leased refurbished copy machines to hospitals, churches, and schools. On paper, he could have been Robin Hood. But then Mario discovered that the counters on the copy machines had been rigged. For every two copies printed, the counter recorded three. A technician came forward, pointing the finger at Robin Hood and claiming that it was company policy. The story got picked by the newspapers, then the local news stations. Within a week their opponent’s campaign had flat-lined and the district attorney had become involved. Now all Frank had to do was keep the story in the mind of the voters so that no one would forget it on election day.

Frank sat down and looked at the newspaper spread open on his desk. He’d already read the article, but couldn’t help reading it again. It was the story of Woody’s murder.

His eyes moved across the headline WOODY DARROW SLAIN IN ROBBERY, then down to the photos of Woody and Sonny Stockwell, the teenager who had murdered him. Instead of using Stockwell’s mug shot, The Post had reprinted a photograph from the kid’s high school yearbook. All the attitude was gone, Frank noticed. He looked young, vulnerable, like any other eighteen-year-old in his last year of school. According to the writer, Stockwell had a high IQ and had scored well on his SATs. The kid had been college bound.

Tracy stepped into the room with her notepad. One quick glance and he could tell that she was anxious.

“Reverend Neilmarker called,” she said in a voice that trailed off.

“He found Stockwell’s friend?”

She gave him a worried look. “Why are you doing this?”

He didn’t answer, concealing his excitement and beckoning her on.

“You’re to be at his church at three,” she said finally.

He nodded. Neilmarker had found Alan Ingrams. Frank glanced at his watch. He could make his meeting with the Merdocks at their home in Virginia and get back to the city in plenty of time. But he needed an hour to get ready for the Merdocks. He had an idea where he wanted to take the campaign, but he needed to flesh it out in writing.

“Stop worrying,” he said, changing the subject. “Linda’s got a bag packed. Where’s she going?”

“Colorado. They’re in trouble.”

Tracy averted her eyes. He could tell she was holding something back and lowered his voice as he made what he thought was the obvious guess.

“Is Jason Hardly going with her?”

He watched her trying to fight it. After a moment, she nodded like it hurt. Frank leaned back in his chair and looked out the window. The words came easy. He’d been thinking about it ever since he saw them together in the interrogation room the other night.

“It’s serious, isn’t it,” he said.

Tracy stepped forward, upset. “It’s what you did to Ozzie Olson, Frank. She can’t get it out of her head.”

Chapter 25

Frank pulled off the street and coasted down the long driveway to a fabulous Virginia mansion set in a neighborhood of similarly fabulous Virginia mansions hidden from the world by all the trees. Frank was familiar with the woodsy setting of McLean, Virginia because so many senators lived here. Three of his clients lived within ten miles along this very road.

Parking beside a bright red Mustang, he grabbed his briefcase and glanced at the house as he approached the front door. Stewart Brown and Lou Kay had taken a shot of Merdock’s post office box, calling it his residence. They knew that they could get away with it because they knew that Frank could never show where Merdock actually lived. His lifestyle. All the money. One look at the place would do more damage than Frank cared to think about.

He rang the doorbell and listened to the rich resonating sound that seemed to fit the price of the house and the neighborhood it was located in. As he waited, he spotted Norman, Merdock’s driver and bodyguard, polishing a brand new Lincoln Town Car by the garage. He was buffing the wax on the hood by hand—a stocky, strong-armed man who had worked for the Merdocks in Fort Worth and made the trip east. When Norman noticed him watching, he gave Frank a nod and got back to work. Frank looked past him, pleased to find the Mercedes safely stowed inside the garage and hidden beneath a canvas tarp until after election day. If a candidate were caught riding in a foreign car, no matter what make or model, it would become an issue. And as Frank had explained to the Merdocks early on, there were already enough issues in this race.

The front door opened and Frank turned around to find Juliana Merdock looking at him with those clear blue, wide-open eyes of hers.

“Thanks for letting me sit in,” she said.

He smiled at her and nodded. At twenty-eight, his client’s wife seemed younger, her body tight and still energetic.

“Any time, Juliana. You should know that.”

He stepped into the huge foyer, watching her close the heavy door. Juliana had black hair cut just off her shoulders, an attractive face, and wore a stylish suit the color of charcoal. Her skirt was cut three or four inches above the knee, her long legs wrapped in dark stockings. Frank guessed that the suit was an Armani, and that the white blouse and black ribbon bow tie had been her idea. A reminder that she came from the South.

She turned to him and smiled. “Things aren’t going quite the way we expected, are they.”

Her eyes had a certain reach about them. He liked her attitude and knew that she was smart. He didn’t really mind that she was in.

“They’re in the library,” she said. “Strategizing.”

Frank followed her across the foyer, passing an elegant stairway of carved mahogany that rose to the landing and a balcony on the second floor. The house was clean—the furnishings the work of an expensive interior designer rather than the result of a lifetime of interest and collecting. As he walked behind her, he wondered if Juliana had come from money. It seemed like she had. There was that straightforwardness about her. That special kind of confidence that comes from the knowledge that you’ve got a sizable bank account behind you. Unlike Frank, she didn’t appear to have any of the usual cuts or bruises that people get as they make the climb through life on their own.

They found Merdock and Jake in the library, sitting at a long table in the middle of the room with their eyes glued to the TV. They were watching a copy of Lou Kay’s second spot. Frank recognized it as he approached them.

“The truth is we Virginians don’t need a politician or a Texas millionaire representing us in Washington. We need Virginia’s Lou Kay. He’s a working guy. A family man who shares our—”

Frank grabbed the remote and hit STOP, glaring at them angrily. “How many times have you guys watched this? I told you from the beginning—where you lived would be an issue.”

Merdock sat up. “It’s more than that. It’s personal.”

“No it’s not. It’s politics. I want you to stop looking at these.”

Frank tossed the remote on the table, sat down and opened his briefcase. He could feel Juliana’s eyes on him as she took a seat beside Jake.

“We’re in trouble, aren’t we?” she said.

Frank found the file he was looking for and opened it, trying to shake off his bad mood. “Lou Kay’s making your residency the main issue in the mind of the voters. They’re controlling the dialogue. They attack. We react. It’s an issue they know we can’t win.”

She seemed surprised. “I thought we were outspending him?”

“We can’t win this issue,” he said. “We need to clear the board and set our own agenda.”

“How?” Merdock asked.

Frank spotted the Bible on the table beside Merdock’s briefcase and looked away from it. He knew that Merdock was religious, but didn’t want to know about that part of his life. When he glanced at the titles on the bookshelves, it occurred to him that they were probably supplied by the interior decorator along with the furniture. Frank decided that he didn’t want to know about that part of his client’s life either.

“Talk radio,” he said flatly.

They stared back at him without understanding. Frank passed out copies of his plan, then got up and started pacing.

They were losing the war. They were under heavy attack on all fronts. And Frank felt certain that they weren’t going to make it if they remained on the straight and narrow course of an open battle field. It was time to run for the woods and hide behind the trees. Time for guerrilla tactics. Time for him to lay out his scheme and see if they could take it.

“I want to hire thirty people,” he said finally. “I want to put them in a room with telephones and headsets and hit every talk radio show twenty-four hours a day. I want to hear Lou Kay being attacked for running a negative campaign in real people’s voices. I want to hear them say that Mel Merdock’s the only candidate concerned with the issues. Within three days, people will have doubts about Kay. Within a week, they’ll believe in you, Mel. Then we’ll finish Kay off on TV.”

They were stupefied. Frank waited, unable to get a read. Then Jake gasped.

“Is it legal?”

Frank shrugged. “It happens every day.”

Jake thought it over and began laughing. Juliana lowered her brow.

“The callers are fake,” she said, still trying to understand.

“Not at all,” Frank said. “They’re real callers and everybody stuck in traffic is really listening.”

He saw the confusion on her face and wondered if part of her world of light and good had just come tumbling down. It was a bold idea. Something that they would have to keep away from the telephone marketing firms and set up on their own.

But Frank also knew that the risks were minimal. If the location was ever found, it wouldn’t look any different than a volunteer phone bank calling voters for their support. In fact, Merdock’s own attorney was in a high-rise building with available space that would be convenient for everyone. Frank had noticed the FOR LEASE sign when he’d scouted the building last month. They had shot their campaign commercials at the law firm and he guessed that the empty space he’d seen in passing would be perfect. He’d checked with the real estate agent this morning. The space was still open, the agent willing to work with him on a short-term lease. Once he made his decision, the lease and two sets of keys would be sent to Frank’s office on the Hill via messenger.

*          *          *

Merdock wrote a check for the additional money Frank would need to fund the operation. Frank slipped it into his breast pocket, guessing that they could be up and running by tomorrow afternoon. Both Merdock and Jake appeared grateful, their hope revived, their worry diminished at least for now.

As Frank passed through the foyer on his way out, Juliana walked down the staircase with her two young daughters, Bridget and Grace. All three were dressed in riding outfits, the two girls looking like five and six-year-old versions of their mother.

Frank opened the door for them and they stepped outside. Norman had brought the Lincoln around and was helping the girls into the car. When Frank turned to Juliana, he found her staring at him.

“What happens if you get caught?” she said.

There was a smile on her face. A certain kind of wonder.

“You need to keep an eye on your husband for me,” he said.

The look in her eyes changed, but the smile was still there.

“He’s new at this,” she said.

“Lou Kay’s just getting started. You need to keep Mel distracted and let me worry about the rest. If he’s upset, I want you to call me.”

She thought it over and then nodded.

“Where do you ride?” he asked.

“Just down the road. You should join us sometime, Frank. It’s lovely. Especially in the afternoon.”

She got in the car with her daughters, who waved at Frank from the rear window. Then Frank watched the Lincoln sweep down the long drive through the falling leaves. Juliana turned and gazed at him with the sun gleaming through her shiny black hair. When she smiled, Frank smiled back. She could have been on the cover of Vogue.

Chapter 26

Raymond looked at the people on the corner as he made a right and saw the white Lexus a half block ahead. He’d been following the car since it left McLean, Virginia and he found it hard to keep up with. Frank Miles had hit the George Washington Memorial Parkway at eighty-five miles an hour, weaving in and out of traffic like a madman until he crossed the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge. Raymond thought that there might be a problem at the office, some kind of political emergency, whatever that was. But now they were rolling through a run-down section of the city that gave even Raymond pause. Why?

There was a church on the right, free of graffiti. He could see the Lexus pulling into the lot.

Raymond parked at the curb, watching Frank get out of his car and walk up the steps to the church.

Why?

As Raymond thought it over, he looked at the people on the street and hit the door locks. It wasn’t that they were black. He wasn’t stupid and didn’t give a shit about that. It was that they were poor. Poverty had a way of turning the ground meat of your soul into a Sloppy Joe. He knew because he had been there himself and eaten a lot of Sloppy Joes. At a certain point your hope ran out and you became bored and stopped caring. Once you stopped caring, anything was possible.

He decided that he’d better leave the engine running and switched on his cassette player to tape 2, side 2 in the series: coping with market fluctuations and how to predict them, defining the limitations of your competitor, it’s your turn to seize the day. This was his least favorite tape in the series. The one where his mind always seemed to wander until it got near the end. Still, it was a familiar voice. One that he liked having in his head.

The tape started. He gazed past the church to the next corner trying to get his bearings. When he read the street sign, he finally realized where he was. Four blocks to the west stood an abandoned school wrapped in layers of spray paint. Every window in the building had been broken, yet the playground looked as if it was still maintained and still used. He’d found Sonny Stockwell there playing basketball. He’d shot him in the back with a single bullet as the kid looked at him and tried to run away.

Chapter 27

Frank entered the church lobby and found a young teenage girl doing her homework at the reception table. She had a gentle, trusting smile as she asked for his name and wrote it down. After speaking with the pastor on the phone like someone twice her age, she stepped out from behind the table and began leading the way.

Frank followed her to the back of the church, then up a narrow stairway to a waiting room outside Doc Neilmarker’s office. She pointed at the office and smiled before running back down the steps like the girl that she really was.

Frank turned and saw Neilmarker standing before his desk. The man shook his head at him and didn’t look pleased.

“Bingo, Frank,” he said in a voice that boomed.

Frank walked into the office and they shook hands. In spite of the adrenalin coursing through his body, Frank’s expectations were low. But then he noticed the boy sitting in a chair in the corner by the window. His eyes were pinned to the floor. As Frank moved closer, he noticed the boy shrinking in his seat.

“This is Alan Ingrams,” Neilmarker said.

Frank offered his hand.

“Shake his hand,” Neilmarker said to the boy. “That’s it.”

Ingrams’s hand was sweaty and Frank released it. For a split second their eyes met before Ingrams looked back down at the floor. But in that moment, Frank knew. The boy was grieving just as he was grieving. There was a certain sadness about him that would have been impossible to fake.

Neilmarker sat on the corner of his desk and folded his arms over his chest. Frank’s stomach began to churn.

“Now we’re gonna have a little chat,” Neilmarker said firmly. “You ready, Alan?”

Ingrams nodded, his eyes still on the ground.

“Good. Now tell Frank just what you told me. He’s a friend, Alan. Don’t be scared.”

Several moments passed before Ingrams could pull himself together. When he finally started speaking, his voice was barely audible.

“Sonny didn’t kill that guy in the papers.”

“Tell him what you saw, Alan. Frank can figure out the rest.”

“We were gonna meet and shoot hoops before I went to work. I got there late. I saw him talking to a white guy. Only we don’t know any white guys.”

Frank needed to sit down. As he turned the second chair toward Ingrams, he noticed a tear dripping down the boy’s cheek. The kid was facing the void just as he was.

“What did the white guy look like?” Neilmarker said.

Ingrams shuddered at the memory and took a deep breath. “Gray hair. A long crew with spikes. It was dark. I didn’t see him that good.”

“What did you do?”

Ingrams began to cry. A moment passed and Frank tried to remain calm. His thoughts and fears were rising to the surface. No longer grounded in feeling, they had a shape and body now. Frank flinched as he realized that his guess had suddenly become true.

“No one was around,” Ingrams whispered. “I got scared.”

“You ran away,” Neilmarker said. “What happened next?”

Ingrams buried his face in his hands, losing it again. “I heard a shot. I snuck back, but Sonny wasn’t there. No one was there.”

“So you’re saying Sonny got shot in the schoolyard and not at Frank’s office. Why should we believe you?”

Ingrams lowered his hands and turned to Frank. When their eyes met, it stung.

“We were friends,” Ingrams managed. “I’m sorry, mister. My friend’s dead, too.”

The kid turned away, wiping his cheeks and shaking. Frank moved to the window for a breath of fresh air. He couldn’t find the words. He couldn’t speak. No one else could either.

Chapter 28

“Bullshit, Frank!”

They were in a conference room off the detective bureau, Randolph and Grimes staring at him from their chairs as he stood at the end of the table.

“The ballistic report’s in,” Randolph continued angrily. “So is the goddamn autopsy. Gunshot residue was found on the kid’s hand same as it was on Woody’s. The bullets match. Fingerprints match. They shot it the hell out. What world are you living in, man?”

Frank took a deep breath and leaned over the table. “Don’t you understand? Somebody went to a lot of trouble to make it look like this.”

Grimes laughed. “He’s spinning again.”

Randolph shook his head in disbelief and lit a cigarette. “Who fed you this crap? Alan Ingrams? Sonny Stockwell’s partner in the burglary six months ago? What did he say, Frank? ‘I know Sonny didn’t do it ‘cause we’re friends.’”

Frank took the hit and sat down. He’d just told them everything he knew and it hadn’t made any difference. And now he had a clearer understanding of why Alan Ingrams had refused to talk to these guys and Doc Neilmarker had backed the kid up. The way things were going, D.C.’s finest would implicate Ingrams in Woody’s murder and charge him as an accomplice to the crime.

Frank turned back to Randolph. “What are you gonna do about it?”

“We’re closing the case, that’s what we’re doing. Just as soon as you answer two questions.”

Frank leaned back in his chair and sighed. Randolph opened a file and found the questions he’d written down on a notepad.

“Woody made a call to Metro Legal in Arlington just before he died. The call was so short, he must have hit an answering machine. Who’s Metro Legal and why is your partner calling them at that hour of night?”

Frank didn’t know and shook his head.

Grimes laughed again. “Next question.”

Frank couldn’t believe their attitude. When he first walked in, he thought that they’d welcome the news and run with it. Instead, Grimes’s stupid grin was back, and Randolph’s eyes were glazed over like he was sleepwalking.

Randolph tapped his cigarette ash into the trash can and returned to his notes. “You said that you were at a fund-raiser over at the Mayflower, Frank. But the people you were with say you got up from the table and didn’t come back for forty-five minutes to an hour. Where were you?”

Frank hesitated a moment, stunned as he tried to remember. “I have no idea. Talking to a photographer. In the lobby making phone calls. Anything else?”

Randolph swung his head back and forth with his eyes on him. “No. That’s it, Frank. Case closed.”

Frank ripped open the door and bolted out of the detective bureau.

He could see what had happened—Randolph working the case based on the evidence at face value with little or no help from Grimes. But the evidence had been laid out by the killer. They were seeing exactly what the man with spiked gray hair wanted them to see. Alan Ingrams was telling the truth. Frank could feel it in his bones. Woody’s murder hadn’t been an accident and neither had Stockwell’s. The client files in Woody’s drawer had been removed, then put back in reverse by someone working quickly who didn’t recognize the names. That’s why the current files were found buried in the back of the drawer. The man with spiked gray hair had been looking for something in Woody’s office. And he’d gained entry through the locked door to their building because he carried the right tools and knew how to use them.

The murder scene flashed before his eyes.

Frank stared at the pearl handled gun beside Woody’s corpse. He’d been in shock that night, too stunned to catch it.

The pearl handled gun.

Woody didn’t like guns. It was ridiculous to think that his friend even owned one.

A cop stepped into the hall from one of their peep rooms. Frank bumped into him, pushed him aside and hustled toward the lobby. The murders were deliberate, the crime scene staged. He needed help, but wasn’t sure where to turn. He knew it now. Woody had been murdered for a reason, not spare change.

Chapter 29

He kept it to himself—what had happened and what he’d learned. Standing by the window in the war room, Frank looked into the parking lot below and saw the Mercedes idling with its headlights on. Jason Hardly was helping Linda with her overnight bag. She was wearing a short black skirt and V-neck sweater with black stockings and shoes. The dark clothing brought out her eyes and lips, the natural color of her blond hair. Frank had given her the sweater and found her whole look stunning whenever she wore it.

Hardly shuffled the bags and finally swung the trunk closed. Then they got into the car and drove off for the airport and what Frank assumed would be a work-love fest in Colorado. Once Linda spent a few days holding the campaign’s hand and putting out fires, she and Hardly would have the weekend to themselves….

“You’re fucked, Frank.”

He turned from the window and saw Dick Zain entering the room. Zain’s glasses were so thick, Frank had never been able to tell what color his eyes were. Fingerprint gray maybe, with a smudge of blue. He wore short sleeve shirts all year long and used the front pocket as a combination pen holder and toolbox.

After trying to convince Randolph and Grimes that they were on the wrong track, Frank had returned to the office for another look at Woody’s things. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, although he had to admit that he didn’t really know what he was looking for. When Tracy and the interns left for the day, he’d made the call to Dick Zain. Zain had been at it for less than an hour, with instructions from Frank not to say anything until Linda and Jason Hardly were gone. Now he was dumping two dozen bugs on Tracy’s desk.

Frank felt his spine shiver and popped two more caplets of Tylenol like they were candy. “All these came from Woody’s office?”

Zain shook his head. “No, Frank. The whole fucking place is wired like a Christmas tree. Every fucking office. Every fucking phone. I haven’t checked Linda’s yet, but I’ll bet it’s the same.”

Zain disassembled a pen, shook a part out the size of a pencil eraser and held it to the light so that Frank could see. Zain was clearly impressed.

“Wireless,” he said. “There’s a radio transmitter in the bathroom ceiling. State-of-the-fucking-art. Whoever’s been listening could be anywhere on the fucking Hill.”

The phone rang. Frank glared at it.

“Are we clean?”

Zain shot him a look and smiled. “I fucking hope so.”

*          *          *

Frank couldn’t see the Lincoln Memorial because of all the fog. He stood at the water’s edge, smoking and pacing as he waited for Mario. The night had become chilly. Frank gazed at the huge pool and could see his face reflecting on its surface. The image was cloudy and distorted, the result of the warm water meeting the cooler air and steaming its way into the sky. It was a misty face he saw staring back at him, drawn in blacks and dark grays.

When Mario finally arrived, they started walking along the water’s edge, away from the sounds of tourists hidden in the dense fog.

“Sorry I’m late,” Mario said. “Traffic was bad. None of the traffic signals are working.”

Frank nodded. It had happened before. The mayor of Washington was known for his use of cocaine rather than his ability to manage the nation’s capital. As a result, the city couldn’t afford to pay its electric bill on occasions and the signal lights shut down.

“Who did the sweep?”

“Dick Zain,” Frank said. “Now what have you got?”

“Randolph’s supposed to be a good detective. I don’t know why he’s giving you a hard time. Maybe he’s overworked.”

Frank was finished with Randolph and Grimes. “What else?” he asked.

“The Committee for the Restoration of American Values and Ethics. They use the acronym RAVE, like those drug concerts. They’ve got an office here and another one in Atlanta.”

Frank shook his head. Politics wasn’t the issue tonight. “What about Woody? You did his research. You sure there’s nothing there?”

“People don’t kill people over social security. Not yet anyway. Besides, we’ve got another problem right now.”

Frank gave him a look as they reached a street light. A young couple was passing within earshot—locals dressed in jogging outfits. As Mario stopped to wipe the mist off his glasses, Frank noticed the woman gripping her keys. A small canister of pepper spray was attached, her finger already in position for a possible attack. When the couple vanished into the fog, Mario cleared his throat and lowered his voice.

“There’s a rumor, Frank.”

“What rumor?”

“Your client’s having an affair.”

“Mel Merdock?”

Mario nodded, slipping his glasses back on. Frank got rid of his smoke.

“That’s all he needs. How good’s the rumor?”

Mario grimaced. “I don’t know yet. You know how Stewart Brown is, Frank. Maybe he started it. Maybe he made it up just for kicks.”

Frank thought it over. The Merdock/Kay race might have another issue after all, whether it was real or not. He knew Stewart Brown was capable of making anything up in order to get the win. Even more troubling was how Frank’s worried client would take the news. There seemed to be a limit to what Merdock could handle.

“What do you want me do?” Mario asked, not hiding his smile very well.

“Find out if it’s real,” he said.

Chapter 30

They were images of a Juliana Merdock look-a-like. She was about the same age and had black hair, only her naked body was fuller, looser, more voluptuous. And Mel Merdock, candidate for the U.S. Senate, looked like he was having a good time with her. He was holding her down on the bed, squeezing and biting her big tits as he rode her like an animal at the rodeo.

Ozzie Olson’s dick got hard as he paged through the series of sex shots on his computer. He tried to fight off his erection because he found the images so disturbing. Especially Mel Merdock wearing that stupid cowboy hat. Still, he couldn’t keep his eyes off those tits.

Olson had photographed Merdock with his girlfriend on three occasions—gone through the kitchen window with his camera three times. These images were part of the first batch when things were relatively tame. Olson had been surprised by how close he could get without being noticed those first two times. He was never in the same room with them, but he didn’t need to be. From the end of the hall, he had a clear shot of the entire bed, even the hot tub in the bathroom. Besides, they had other things on their minds. And both of them were moaners, Merdock even louder than the girl when she did certain things to him.

Olson grabbed his drink, wondering why he’d gone in that third time. That’s when it happened. That’s when it got ugly. He’d been overconfident and moved down the hall. He never should have moved down that hall.

He turned away from the monitor and looked at the phone, wondering if he should call her again tonight or not.

Every time he thought about it his body trembled. He knocked back his drink, resting the glass on a court summons and pouring another. Then he searched his desk for that legal pad. He’d written her number on the front page. Olson’s basement office was a pigsty. He had trouble finding it but remembered putting it in a safe place. When he spotted a stack of bills beneath a discarded bag from Office Depot, he saw the legal pad on the bottom and slid it out.

He looked at the number and read it to himself, still trying to decide. Then he grit his teeth, picked up the phone and dialed. He was calling Senator Helen Pryor, his opponent in the election that he’d lost two years ago. He was calling her in spite of the obvious risk that she might remember the sound of his voice. As he listened to the phone ring, he glanced back at the picture of Merdock screwing his girlfriend. Olson could feel his body raging and decided that it was worth the chance. Merdock and Frank Miles were one in the same thing and they could both eat shit.

Helen picked up the phone from her office in the Russell Building and said hello. The sound of her sweet, calm voice threw Olson off and he cleared his throat trying to regain his composure and sense of purpose.

“If you could only see what I see, Senator,” he said roughly.

“Who is this?”

Olson didn’t answer, noting that she hadn’t recognized him.

“How did you get my private line?” she went on.

A truck was idling outside. Olson closed the basement window and sat down.

“You gave it to me,” he said finally. “We used to be friends, Helen. A long time ago. That’s why I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

She didn’t say anything after that. He could hear her breathing. Waiting. What could she be thinking as she listened from the other end?

It had been a mistake, he realized. He shouldn’t have called her. He’d fucked up and shouldn’t have taken the risk. What if she recognized his voice? What if she put it together and remembered?

He slammed the phone down and jumped to his feet, overcome by the shakes. When he guzzled his drink, he choked and spit most of it on the floor. He was tired of drinking cheap whisky and making big mistakes. Tired of thinking about the people who had knocked him down and put him here. It was their fault and he hated them for it.

He looked at the paint peeling beneath the window, his loser office eating him up from the inside out. He threw his drink against the wall and watched the glass shatter. Then he grabbed his jacket and walked out. It was too dangerous being a drunk right now. Things were too tricky. What he needed was hot, black coffee. A whole fucking pot.

Chapter 31

Frank pulled into the driveway, dropping his cell phone into his briefcase. He’d checked in with his service on the drive home. There were thirty-nine messages since he last checked an hour and a half ago. Campaign managers mostly. All in a panic and looking for advice as they faced the day-to-day crisis every campaign worked through this close to election day.

Frank’s goal was a decent night’s sleep. For the past few nights he couldn’t make it past three, tossing and turning until dawn.

He changed into a pair of jeans, slipped on a T-shirt and went downstairs to see about dinner. He made a salad and mixed a dressing together consisting of four tablespoons of extra virgin olive oil to one tablespoon of red wine vinegar with a pinch of salt and imported Parmesan cheese. Then he nuked a frozen lasagna dinner, poured a glass of wine and carried everything over to the game table in the living room.

As he ate and Buddha pretended not to watch, he went through the files on Woody’s clients Linda had given him before she left for her trip with Jason Hardly. Six of Woody’s clients wanted to stay with the firm. Frank and Linda would each handle three. Frank told himself that he wanted to get a feel for their chances so that he could budget his time and interest. But he also knew that his motive was more far reaching than that.

Halfway through dinner he came to realize why Woody may have been so moody these past few months. Frank had always thought that Woody’s clients would lose because they couldn’t raise enough money to run decent campaigns. That was true, but now he understood that in each case the candidate’s problems ran deeper than that.

The first was a progressive candidate running in Alabama. Frank had predicted that the South would go conservative three cycles ago. When O.J. Simpson was acquitted in his criminal trial for the murder of his wife, the fate of the South was sealed, and Frank’s predictions had been proven correct. Acknowledging that there might be exceptions here and there, a progressive candidate had no chance in the South for perhaps another decade. Maybe even a generation or two. Frank wouldn’t waste too much time on this race. Two, maybe three spots to be made in the next few days and then forgotten.

The second race was a hard-fought congressional contest between two women in Portland, Oregon. Woody’s client had beaten her opponent in the previous election two years before. Now the opponent had returned with a new hair style, contact lenses, and a fashionable dress designer to accommodate her leaner figure. Her spots looked like feminine hygiene commercials complete with warm and fuzzy music. But there was nothing warm and fuzzy about the opponent herself. Along with her new image were charges of hiring private detectives to follow Woody’s client around and dig up dirt. There had also been a mysterious infusion of cash into the opponent’s campaign reported to be in excess of one million dollars. She was running a dirty race, and Woody’s client only had about two hundred thousand collected from small contributions to defend herself.

The race in Portland was over the moment the opponent cheated, receiving that mysterious one million dollars in cash. Frank knew that nothing he could do would change that. The opponent would win and her crimes would have to be sorted out after the election.

He ate another bite of lasagna and took a sip of wine, then opened the next file.

The last race was a woman from Michigan, running for an open seat in the House. Unfortunately, she had made the mistake of accepting her governor’s appointment to the state parole board ten years before. Crime was the big issue in the race, and she had the support of every police organization in the state. She was tough on crime and her opponent was a right-wing fanatic with no experience. In a rational world, she would have been a shoe-in to win the race. Instead, her accomplishments were the very thing that made her vulnerable, and as such, the district had been targeted by the opponent’s national committee.

The money and commercials against her weren’t coming from her congressional district or even her state, but directly from Washington.

Frank suddenly remembered Woody showing him one of their ads a few months ago. The opponent’s party had gone through every criminal legally paroled in the last ten years and picked out the four most vicious mug shots they could find. The spot had the subtlety of a sledgehammer and seemed to indicate that Woody’s client favored releasing rapists and murderers over jail time.

Woody’s client had been thrown into the weeds. She didn’t stand a chance.

Frank closed the files and returned them to his briefcase. Unfortunately, there was nothing there he hadn’t seen before. No one involved would have had a reason to harm Woody. In each race, Woody’s client was destined to lose.

Disappointed that he hadn’t found anything that even sparked his imagination, Frank carried his dishes into the kitchen and scraped morsels of leftover lasagna into Buddha’s bowl. As he watched the dog eat them with delight, he poured a drink and walked into the study. Linda had been over the other night, and he thought that he could still smell the light scent of her body lotion as he stood by the couch. He looked at his watch. It was only nine in Washington, but felt later. Considering the time difference, she and Hardly would be in their hotel room getting changed for dinner about now. He wondered if the room had a view of the mountains. If it did, maybe they would decide to order room service tonight and eat in….

Frank switched off the lights and returned to the kitchen, grabbing the bottle and stepping out onto the back porch. He slid a chair away from the table with his foot. As he sat down, he topped off his glass and sipped it. The vodka tasted smooth, warming his stomach as he gazed into the backyard. Heavily planted, the property had the appearance of almost being woods. The moon was out tonight, and he could see it floating through the leafless branches and misty clouds just above the horizon.

There were times when Frank could turn off the white noise of traffic and even ignore the sounds of police sirens hurrying to and fro. But not tonight. He needed a plan. A next move. Some way of finding the man with spiked gray hair.

Chapter 32

Frank packed up his laptop, threw it over his shoulder and headed out. Because it was Saturday, the phones were quiet and only Tracy came in. She was at her desk, updating TV buy orders on the master spreadsheet. As he passed her, she stopped working and gave him a look.

“Is there anything I can help you with, Frank?”

“Everything’s fine. If Juliana Merdock calls, tell her I’m over at the talk radio campaign. She’s already got the address.”

“Juliana?” she said with a devious smile.

He nodded, ignoring the tease and heading downstairs.

He’d spent the morning in Linda’s office, reviewing the three clients she would be handling on Woody’s behalf. When he couldn’t find a hint or clue pointing him in the right direction, he pulled the files on the two candidates who decided to leave the firm. Nothing stood out with them either.

Frustrated, he decided to spend the afternoon trying to keep busy. He’d been listening to the radio. Without new copy, his talk radio campaign might begin to sound stale.

In spite of the rain, he made the drive in fifteen minutes. The elevator opened onto a vacant floor, and he started down the hall. The real estate agent had been true to her word with Frank renting an office on a short-term lease because the floor was due to be renovated sometime after election day. It was quiet. They were the only tenants occupying the entire floor and had all the privacy they would ever need.

The entrance at the end of the hall was unmarked, the glass blocked with plain brown paper. Frank pushed the door open and walked inside.

Long tables filled out the large, open space with thirty volunteers, most of them seniors, listening to the radio on headsets and working the phones. Frank had brought them in from the Hilltop Rest Home and it was clear that they were glad to be working. He had provided them with cheat sheets detailing the points he wanted them to discuss. After a few hours, they understood the routine and their speech patterns began to relax. After a few days, their delivery sounded smooth and conversational. Even Frank couldn’t tell that he was creating the content for every talk radio station in Virginia.

He moved to the catering tray at the head of the room, grabbed a cup of coffee and set up his computer and portable printer beside an older woman who had just gone on the air.

“Am I on?” the woman said into her phone. “Great talking to you, Ollie. I listen to your show every day. That’s the kids in the background. I’m a housewife and I agree with the last caller. I’m tired of politicians like Lou Kay running negative campaigns.”

The room was buzzing. Frank noticed a man with short white hair seated at the next table taking notes. As he began speaking, there was a hint of anger in his voice, a real sense of frustration that Frank knew would play like honesty.

“All I’m asking for is a little common sense,” the man was saying. “It’s really that simple. If Lou Kay wants to be a senator, he should have the courtesy of letting us know where he stands on the issues like Merdock has.”

Frank dug into his keyboard, passing out new copy as fast as he could write it. He forgot about Woody and being overwhelmed by the feeling that somewhere in his friend’s life was a reason why he and an innocent teenager had been murdered. After several hours, he lost track of time. When he looked up, he saw Juliana enter the room. Carrying a raincoat, she was dressed casually in a dark skirt and light top. She looked relaxed, as if she had enjoyed the drive into town in the rain. Frank remembered seeing the red Mustang parked outside her house.

She saw Frank and walked over. The woman sitting beside him was about to hang up when she brought the phone back to her ear and started speaking again.

“Are you saying that I should believe Lou Kay just because of his address? I don’t think so. I don’t give a hoot where either one of them is from. We’re all Americans, right? And just maybe we need someone new.”

Frank noticed Juliana eyeing the woman. He closed his laptop and stood up.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “You hungry?”

Juliana smiled and seemed a bit overwhelmed. She glanced around the room, then looked back and nodded. Frank grabbed his jacket.

“There’s a place around the corner,” he said.

Most of the time, the spouse of a new candidate was a liability. Most of the time, whether they were a man or a woman, the spouse got in the way until they realized that they were in over their heads and knew nothing about politics, or they became angry, forcing their way in with a bruised ego and refusing to budge regardless of the consequences.

Frank had signed on with a client like that ten years ago. The candidate was running for a House seat in New York and his wife wasn’t happy with the spots Frank had made. She had dismissed them as being too gritty and hard edged. She thought that she knew better and wanted to be the one who saved the day. She was eight months pregnant when she showed up at Vintage Video, creating a scene and demanding to see all the available footage so that she could pick out the shots on her own. At the time, they were enjoying a ten-point lead. At the time, Frank didn’t have the clout or reputation to tell her to go fuck herself, which he would have liked to have done and certainly would do today. Instead, he had tried to reason with her, explaining that the goal of any political spot was to stand out and be noticed. And the only way to do that, given the circumstances which changed from election to election, would be to make the spots look gritty and hard edged.

She wouldn’t listen. And when she was done fooling around in the edit suite and the new spots finally aired, the bottom fell out of her husband’s campaign. They lost the race and she blamed Frank for it. Frank didn’t know what the man was doing anymore. They’d lost touch after the election. But three or four years ago he’d heard that the woman had pressed charges against her husband for domestic violence and filed for a divorce. Frank guessed that the man had finally had enough. Both of them had. They’d learned the hard way that politics was about more than having an opinion and keeping up with the news.

But Juliana Merdock was different. As Frank sat across the table watching her finish a salad and look out at the rain, he sensed that she was.

“We’re working radio twenty-four hours a day,” he said. “You need to be patient. We’ve got a lot of ground to make up.”

She picked up her wine glass. “I saw the overnight poll you sent over, Frank. It doesn’t look like anything’s changed.”

“That’s the change,” he said. “We’ve stopped falling. By tomorrow I think you’ll find that we’ve gained two or three points. People are starting to doubt Kay. They know who we are now. We’re moving in the right direction.”

Her eyes rose from the table, big and blue and filled with excitement. He could tell that she hadn’t expected the news to be this good this early, if at all. Stewart Brown had succeeded in spoiling the battlefield to such an extent that Frank’s TV spots for Merdock were falling on deaf ears. Dumping more money into TV would never change that, no matter what the amount. But hearing people talk on the radio had changed everything. They’d been hammering the message to talk radio junkies for days. Now the tide was turning, the ground fertilized. People were beginning to call in on their own, and Frank knew that they were finally ready to accept his media campaign. In a few more days, Merdock would have the momentum and his TV spots would begin working. By the end of next week, Merdock would be the man to beat, unless there was an unforeseen problem, another issue throwing them off course.

“How do you come up with these ideas?” she asked.

Frank looked at her face, then let his eyes drift down to her body. Her skin was lightly tanned and looked soft. Her breasts were small and perky. From where Frank sat, perfectly formed. By any standard, Juliana Merdock was a beautiful woman.

“How’s your home life?” he asked, pushing his plate aside.

She gave him a look and laughed. “My marriage?”

“Yeah,” he said. “How are you and Mel getting along?”

She sat back in the chair and seemed amused. He watched her casually glance around the restaurant. No one would be showing up for dinner for an hour or two. Except for another couple in the corner, they had the place to themselves and could talk freely. When she turned back, her eyes had that reach that he’d always found so attractive.

“Are you asking if we sleep together?”

He smiled and nodded, grasping the wine bottle. As she thought it over, he touched off her glass and then his own.

“The other day you asked me to spy on my husband,” she said. “I think you’re enjoying these conversations.”

“I think you are, too, and I’m glad. You need to become more involved.”

Frank settled in his chair, waiting her out. The wine tasted good.

“Mel’s not like his father,” she said finally. “His father was self-made. Mel depends on me.”

“That’s why we’re talking, Juliana.”

She smiled as if facing a dare, her voice becoming low and earthy now. “We sleep in the same bed, if that’s what you’re asking. We do it in bed, on the floor, sometimes even in the car if Norman’s not driving.”

She didn’t look embarrassed. She was playing him now. Flirting.

“So there’s no truth to the rumor that there might be a problem?”

“What have you heard?” she asked.

“Just what I’m saying.”

She leaned closer and took his hand, flashing a sleepy smile. That earthy voice of hers was back.

“Personally, I like it best when we fuck in the shower, Frank. I like being on top.”

He smiled at her. “Sounds like you don’t spend much time baking cookies.”

She leaned back, pulling her hand away and laughing. He liked her.

Chapter 33

He was sitting in a fake car, lazily flipping a fake ID badge open and closed as he chewed gum and waited. Raymond had rented the sedan from Rent-A-Wreck. The badge was something that he’d brought to the job just in case. Even though he was only six blocks from that Baptist church and it would be dark in an hour, he wasn’t worried about the neighborhood or the losers who inhabited it. Raymond knew what he looked like with his hair slicked back and his raincoat on. He was playing a cop. An inner city detective in an unmarked car. Someone the people on the sidewalks would spot quickly and cross the street to avoid.

Unfortunately, Rent-A-Wreck didn’t have a suitable model with a tape player. Instead, he listened to the rain pinging off the car’s metal roof and practiced flipping the fake badge open like the detectives on his wife’s favorite TV show, Law and Order. There was a knack to it, he realized. Revealing the badge and then letting it sit there.

He glanced out the window and saw a homeless man pushing a shopping cart filled with garbage. The man was dressed in rags and wore a football helmet, obviously mad as he babbled at the rain.

Raymond wondered how long it would be before he could go home. Of course, Baltimore wasn’t much better. Raymond had read about the upcoming mayoral race in the Baltimore Sun. It didn’t look like anyone running would clean things up anytime soon. Of the twenty-seven candidates bidding for the chance, six had arrest records and three had filed for bankruptcy. In September, one candidate had gone to jail on burglary charges after she made a TV appearance and was recognized by a detective working the case. Raymond had read the article out loud to his wife from the kitchen table. Both were glad that they had chosen a home in the suburbs.

Raymond sat up, spotting the son-of-a-bitch before he was even through the door. Alan Ingrams was walking out of the Burger King like he was home free.

Only he wasn’t home free.

Raymond had figured it out the day he’d followed Frank Miles to that Baptist church. After about an hour, Frank had walked out and gone directly to the police. Did they really think that he was that stupid? Raymond had left Frank with the cops and returned to the church for another look. It took awhile, but eventually the preacher stepped outside with the kid. They got in a car and the preacher drove him home. That’s when Raymond got a decent look at his face. He recognized it from his picture in the newspaper. The one that he’d found at the library and kept in his file. Sonny Stockwell and Alan Ingrams had been best friends. Partners in crime.

But now Ingrams was also a probable witness. The kid must have seen him shoot Stockwell and talked.

The windshield was beginning to steam up. Raymond cracked open the window, watching Ingrams pass behind a bus at the corner. When the bus lumbered off and his view cleared, the kid was gone.

Raymond threw his fake badge on the seat and started the car, eyes on the bus as he quickly pulled into traffic. They were heading east, with Raymond staying a few cars back. After three or four blocks, the bus made a stop at the corner. Raymond pulled to the side and waited. When the bus drove off, he scanned the faces left behind, didn’t see Ingrams and pulled back onto the street.

He noticed the neighborhood changing. They had left the commercial buildings behind and reached a run-down residential area that Raymond couldn’t believe anyone lived in. Block after block of dilapidated row houses lying in wait for the wrecking ball.

Raymond caught up to the bus as it pulled away from the next stop. His view cleared. Alan Ingrams stood on the sidewalk, alone.

He pulled forward, rolling the passenger window down. Ingrams saw him and moved closer, leaning into the window with his eyes on the fake badge as Raymond flipped it open just like on TV. He let it sit there a beat before casually slipping it into his pocket. Then he spoke in a voice that he’d practiced before the mirror in his motel bathroom. He’d even given it a name. Casual Joe Friday.

“We need to talk, Alan. Not here. At the station. Better get in.”

“Talk about what?” Ingrams asked, studying his face.

“What you told Frank Miles...”

Ingrams didn’t say anything for a moment, but shook his head like he wasn’t surprised. Raymond knew that he had him. The kid thought he was a real cop.

“It was dark,” Ingrams said, almost pleading. “I didn’t see anything. It could have been anybody.”

“Come on, Alan. Get in the car. We’ll talk it over out of the rain. I’ll buy you a cup of coffee and drive you home.”

He bought it. Ingrams opened the door. He was starting to get in but doing it so slowly it was almost like he had stopped. Raymond couldn’t figure out what was going on. Then he followed the kid’s eyes to the window in the rear door and saw the small sticker over the lock.

Rent-A-Wreck.

Ingrams spun around and looked at his face again. His hair. Raymond watched as the kid’s face flushed with recognition.

“Motherfucker,” Ingrams shouted.

Raymond spit his gum out the window, watching Ingrams bolt across the street and down an alley all pumped up and scared shitless. He knew that he couldn’t follow him on foot. Besides, they were in a fucking war zone. A white guy chasing a black guy would stand out.

He jerked the car forward, snapping the passenger door shut and screeching his tires. He made a U-turn and raced down the street until he reached the next alley.

It was a high-speed blur moving in slow motion. Raymond bounced over the potholes, bulldozing trash cans out of the way and skidding to a stop. A narrow street ran behind the row houses. He waited, the car idling. After a moment, he saw Ingrams passing the street at the other end, still in a full sprint.

Raymond hit the gas, rocketing down the alley. At the next side street, he made a sharp right, racing to beat Ingrams to the corner. Then he jammed on the brakes, grabbed his nightstick and jumped out in the pouring rain.

The street was narrow, lined by the back doors of row houses on both sides. It was getting dark and none of the windows were lighted. Raymond guessed that the buildings had been abandoned and he would be safe. Spotting an empty trash can on its side, he looked through a series of broken windows and saw Ingrams running toward him. The kid was crying and looked panic stricken.

And Raymond was ready for him. He lifted the trash can over his head and heaved it, watching it skid across the alley and chop Ingrams down at the knees. The kid tumbled onto the pavement, saw him spring forward and let out a shriek.

Raymond swung the nightstick down. Ingrams was trying to get off the ground, taking the hits as he reached out for the nightstick and missed. Blow after blow with the kid’s hands and feet moving wildly through the air. Raymond got him in the teeth. The shrieking stopped after that, and Raymond wondered how much the kid had actually seen the night he shot his friend in the schoolyard. Where could he have been hiding? It didn’t matter anymore. Ingrams had recognized him and tried to run away.

Raymond shivered at the thought, swinging the nightstick down even harder. He realized that Ingrams could have ruined his life. One mistake and he could have lost everything that he’d worked so hard for. But he’d kept his eyes open. He’d shown follow through. He’d figured it out and caught his mistake.

His mistake finally stopped moving. Home free.

There was a scent in the air that Raymond couldn’t place. He stood up, his eyes dancing over the body as he caught his breath in the rain. It smelled like food. Dinner. French fries, he realized. Alan Ingrams worked at a Burger King.

Raymond sunk to his knees and tossed the nightstick on the ground. Then he reached into his raincoat and pulled out a knife with a ten-inch blade. It was dark. Images flashed through his head. Moving to Baltimore. His eldest son making the football team. That new Volvo wagon he had promised his wife for Christmas.

He lifted the knife and plunged it down. Blood splattered all over the cinder block wall, his raincoat and face. He did it again, ignoring the spray. Then again and again. His mind was rolling now. It was his turn to seize the day.

Chapter 34

The doorbell rang, followed by pounding.

Frank ran downstairs in a pair of sweat pants, parted the curtain and saw Randolph and Grimes standing on his front porch in the dark. He switched on the light and opened the door.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“About ten,” Randolph said in a low voice. “You alone?”

He nodded. “What’s it look like?”

The detectives entered the house, their faces pale. Frank noticed that the smile Grimes usually wore was no longer there. He followed their hollow eyes as they checked the living room and looked toward the kitchen. After a moment, Randolph turned to him.

“You need to get dressed,” he said. “Alan Ingrams is dead.”

Frank didn’t say anything. He rushed upstairs into the bedroom, threw on his clothes, and bolted out the door.

He found the detectives waiting for him on the porch, their car idling in the drive. They climbed in with Randolph taking his usual place behind the wheel. As they backed onto the street, Grimes eyed the cars parked at the curb. Then Randolph hit the gas.

The rain had stopped, but the roads remained glazed. No one said anything for ten minutes. Then five minutes more as they pressed through the ghetto and turned down a narrow alley. The houses were dark, but Frank could see the work lights set up by the police as they approached the crime scene.

Randolph pulled to a stop a half block off. They got out of the car and started walking toward the lights. As they passed cops and crime scene techs, Frank noticed that their faces had the same hollow look he’d seen Randolph and Grimes wearing. When Woody had been murdered, that look hadn’t been there and he wondered what was different now.

The coroner’s van was in the alley on the other side of the crime scene. The body had already been bagged. Passing beneath the lights as they walked toward the gurney, Frank lowered his eyes to the ground and suddenly realized that the pavement wasn’t wet from the rain. It was blood. He jerked his head up, trying to catch his breath as he smelled it. His eyes moved to the cinder block wall. Blood was everywhere.

They finally reached the coroner’s van. Randolph slipped on a pair of latex gloves, unzipped the body bag and pulled it open. Grimes flipped on his flashlight, pointing it inside the bag. Frank looked at the body and cringed. Someone had blotted out the wounds with multicolored spray paint.

“He was stabbed forty-seven times,” Grimes whispered.

Randolph cleared his throat, holding the bag open. “They painted his face out pretty good, but if you look hard enough...is this the kid you talked to, Frank?”

Frank examined the face. Beneath the paint and oozing blood was the kid that he’d met in Doc Neilmarker’s office. It was Alan Ingrams, the boy who saw the man with spiked gray hair. Frank nodded at Randolph and turned away.

“If you guys think kids did this, you’re full of shit.”

Randolph zipped up the bag and approached him. “Tell us about Ozzie Olson.”

He turned and looked at them carefully.

“We checked that phone number,” Grimes said.

“The call your partner made,” Randolph said. “Metro Legal is Ozzie Olson. Olson got picked up on a DUI a block from your office the night Woody and Stockwell were murdered. You got any idea why your partner would be talking to Ozzie Olson?”

*          *          *

Frank had been hiding in a minivan parked at the curb with his 16mm film camera loaded and ready for over an hour. It was almost midnight, two years ago. Strip clubs and porno theaters lined the block with a steady stream of whores and hungry customers on the sidewalks. Frank looked at them, waiting for one face. One man.

And then it happened.

Frank threw the camera on his shoulder, pointed it out the window and hit the go button. Dark and gritty, the footage was shot with available light on high-speed film. And Frank couldn’t believe what he was seeing through the lens. His good luck and good fortune. He’d just caught a portly Ozzie Olson walking out of a porno theater with his fly open. When Olson looked up and down the street eyeing the whores and vanishing into a strip bar, Frank knew that he had all he needed. Olson’s chances of winning the election against Helen Pryor had just been thrown into the wind. Ozzie Olson would not be a U.S. Senator. He was road kill.

VOICE-OVER ANNOUNCER:

Meet Ozzie Olson, candidate for the U.S. Senate... This is where Olson stands on women’s issues... AGAINST the Family Leave Act. AGAINST enforcing laws barring sexual discrimination in the work place. AGAINST stronger laws protecting women from spousal abuse and domestic violence. AGAINST a woman’s right to choose, even in cases of rape or incest. But Ozzie Olson says he’s a lover of women. Sure he is. Ozzie Olson should NOT be elected to the U.S. Senate. On Tuesday, you can make the difference. Vote.

They were in Senator Helen Pryor’s office in the Russell Building. Detectives Randolph and Grimes sat before the television, trying to hide their smiles as Frank ejected the spot from the VCR.

“It aired twice before we pulled it,” Frank said.

Randolph shrugged. “Why did you pull it?”

“We got a tip Olson had been seen down there every night for a week. I went with a camera and there he was.”

Helen sat back in her desk chair with a pained expression on her face. It was late. She looked tired.

“After the spot aired,” she said quietly, “we learned that Ozzie was really looking for his sixteen-year-old niece. A run-away.”

“We held a press conference,” Frank said. “We tried to straighten everything out, but it was sweeps week. The local news stations and all those political shows on cable used it as their lead-in as much as they could.”

Grimes smiled again, then caught himself. “His fly was down.”

“It was down at a press conference that same afternoon,” Frank said. “It turned out that it was broken, but no one believed him.”

Helen shook her head at the memory. “It was a horrible situation. We disagreed on everything, but we liked each other very much. Ozzie was a good man and a brilliant attorney. Before that ad was broadcast, he had more than enough votes to win.”

“How bad did it get?” Randolph asked.

“He lost in a landslide,” Frank said.

Frank moved to the couch, watching Randolph think it through from a chair on the other side of the coffee table.

“So Olson’s been brooding for a couple of years,” Randolph said. “And now he’s finally snapped. Woody was shot in your office, Frank. The lights were out. Olson shot Woody thinking he was shooting you. Stockwell’s body was there to take the fall because he was a known burglar. Alan Ingrams was murdered tonight because he witnessed part of the crime.”

Frank leaned forward. “What about what Ingrams told me he saw? The man with spiked gray hair. That doesn’t sound like Olson.”

“Who’s to say Olson’s in it alone?” Grimes said.

Everyone turned and looked at him. Grimes had moved to the chair before Helen’s desk and found a bowl of Hershey’s Kisses. Frank had never heard Grimes make sense before. Even Randolph seemed surprised. Grimes popped the piece of chocolate into his mouth and shrugged.

“Olson’s a lawyer,” he said. “He’s got clients, right? And this has been going on for two years. He probably knew just the right guy to call. Good old what’s-his-name. That gray-haired guy with the do.”

Chapter 35

The possibilities clicked through Olson’s head like a satellite transmission spewing information indiscriminately all over the universe. He was sweating it out in the backseat, watching Randolph drive and Grimes clasp the radio mike to the dash. The car bottomed out on the rough road. His wrists hurt, his arms drawn tight behind his back and handcuffed. He was clean, sober—able to think and feel pain, even fear.

He wouldn’t talk to them, he decided. He’d see how much they knew. Maybe there was a chance that he could still get out of this.

He’d been picked up in the short-term parking lot at Washington National Airport just before midnight. Thrown on the ground and searched by a pair of idiot cops after making a run for it to his car. As he’d waited for the detectives to arrive, the cops checked his ticket. Olson remembered the look on their faces. He hadn’t been trying to flee the city. Instead, he’d just returned from a two-day trip in Atlanta and didn’t know what the hell was going on.

Olson saw Randolph staring at him in the rearview mirror.

“Don’t think we don’t get it, Olson. You get trashed by a negative ad and want revenge on the guy you think ruined your piece-of-shit life. Only you screwed up big time. Your buddy got the wrong guy.”

Grimes turned to Olson. “Makes a good story, huh?”

Olson wasn’t listening. He leaned forward for a look out the windshield. The Metro station was a block ahead. The radio rumbled softly in the background.

“Did you guys put out an APB?”

“Why?” Grimes asked. “You gonna write a book?”

Olson gulped at the air, losing his patience. “Did my arrest go out over the radio?”

He got his answer as they turned into the lot. The press was by the door. Fifty of them, readying their cameras as the meat went on the grill.

Randolph grimaced, pulling to a stop in the middle of the crowd. They were surrounded. Grimes threw his jacket over Olson’s face as they got out. Olson began to stumble, then felt Grimes grab his shoulders and begin shoving him toward the building. The reporters were shouting questions at him, calling him a murderer. He could hear the motor drives from the still cameras rattling like machine guns. When he peeked out through the jacket, he saw Grimes grabbing a photographer and pushing him away from the door, the detective’s movements jittering as strobe lights blasted away from every direction.

No matter what happened over the next twenty-four hours, Olson knew that he was out in the open and in big trouble now. If he could worm his way past the Metro cops, he’d have to say good-bye to his wife and kids and make a run for it. At least for a while.

Chapter 36

Raymond glanced at the morning paper as he sipped his coffee and waited for breakfast. He had planned on taking advantage of the Iwo Jima Motel’s free continental breakfast, but another tour bus arrived last night. When he walked into the informal breakfast room, it was filled with people blabbing at each other in a foreign language. Raymond knew that he’d never be able to concentrate, and chose a seat at the counter in the diner instead.

It had been several days since the Alan Ingrams incident and the twitch on the right side of his face had finally stopped. He was more calm now.

Reviewing the front page, a story on the Supreme Court in Texas caught his interest. Apparently every member of the court was on the take. Instead of being appointed, elections were held and members of the court spent most of their time raising money for their advertising campaigns. The attorneys who appeared before them were only too happy to write checks. Same with big business. And now the court’s decisions were openly favoring their contributors. Although every member of the court denied it, their record proved otherwise. In Texas, if your check was big enough, your win was guaranteed.

Every time Raymond had given a judge money, no matter how small the amount, both of them understood that it was a payoff. What used to be called a bribe. He made a mental note to remember the word contribution. He liked it. If it ever came up in the future, he would ask the judge if he could make a contribution to his or her campaign.

The waitress stepped over, filling his cup and smiling at him.

Raymond had seen her before, usually at dinner, and watched as she moved down the counter with the coffee pot. In her early thirties with short brown hair and an attractive face, there was a certain something about her that appealed to him. She was a flirt, and he enjoyed that, too. The way she leaned her elbows on the counter and bent her leg when talking to a customer. She was a woman, but the girl in her hadn’t died yet. He could see it shining through clear as day.

When she finally set down the pot and walked into the kitchen, he turned back to the newspaper. Coverage of the Ingrams murder had been a huge disappointment. Raymond couldn’t believe that such a horrific crime would generate so few words. Just two inches buried in all those ads the day after the murder. His memory of that afternoon was still vague, and he’d been counting on the newspaper to fill in the gaps.

But then he flipped the paper over and spotted a headline on the bottom section of the front page: OZZIE OLSON QUESTIONED IN MULTIPLE SLAYINGS. A photograph was included, Olson in the backseat of a car in handcuffs. Raymond studied it carefully, pushing his coffee aside.

Ozzie Olson was being questioned for the murders of Woody Darrow, Sonny Stockwell, and Alan Ingrams. The writer had sketched out Olson’s troubled past with Frank Miles, pointing to it as the most likely motive. Olson had been defeated in the election two years ago and publically humiliated on television. Although it couldn’t be confirmed, the story seemed to suggest that Olson had been trying to kill Frank Miles and botched it. Woody Darrow’s murder had been a mistake by someone involved with Olson who didn’t know what he was doing. Some incompetent boob.

The waitress arrived with his breakfast. Bacon and eggs with home fries and whole wheat toast with orange marmalade. Raymond pulled out his billfold.

“I’ve gotta make a call,” he said, trying to keep his voice at an even pitch.

She smiled and winked, shaking off the money. When she picked up the plate and gave it to a man seated three stools down, Raymond headed for the door with his newspaper as casually as he could.

Olson had been arrested for the murders, but the story didn’t mention what they had on him. What could they possibly have? And without evidence, how could they hold him?

Crossing the lobby, Raymond entered the hall and picked up speed. He passed a maid’s cart, then another, reaching his room and unlocking the door. When he entered, he glanced at the TV and caught the last ten seconds of a political advertisement on MSNBC. It was the ad he’d read about in the paper—Olson on the street with his fly down, walking into a strip bar.

Raymond grabbed the phone and dialed, trying to think it through. He should have anticipated Olson’s arrest even though it was beyond the realm of possibility. If he wanted to do business in Washington and become a real player, he realized that he was the one person who should have known.

Chapter 37

Frank adjusted another one of his small pieces of torn paper beneath the title camera to fit the words Kip had typed onto the TV screen. The result looked like a headline ripped out of a newspaper: MERDOCK PUSHES TO LOWER TAXES FOR MIDDLE-CLASS FAMILIES. Then the graphic was placed over an image of Merdock hustling through a busy lobby as if late for an important meeting—Mel Merdock, the one man who could get things done.

Juliana sat at the client’s table, her eyes glued on Frank.

“Where do you want the text?” Kip asked.

“On the right so their eyes go to it,” Frank said without hesitation.

As Kip adjusted the graphic, Frank returned to his seat beside Juliana. She had become more involved in the campaign and he welcomed it. Her husband seemed less worried and was no longer bothering him with needless phone calls. Besides, Frank had worries of his own. Olson’s arrest was story one around town. Radio, television—the news had enough life to bounce off the Metro Section onto the front page of The Post. It made a great read. A loser candidate so filled with rage by his defeat that he had sought revenge on the media consultant who had taken him down. But it was also a consultant’s worst nightmare. Someone Frank didn’t know and had only met in passing had tried to have him killed because of the job he’d done. Even worse, they’d screwed it up and murdered Woody.

Still, Frank felt a great sense of relief with Olson behind bars. Even if he didn’t entirely trust it and had to endure the reminder of what he’d done to the man during the election two years ago. His TV spot had been dragged off the shelves, once again becoming the lead-in for the local news broadcasts on all five stations. Frank had seen it while going over this week’s schedule with Juliana yesterday afternoon. When he clicked through the cable channels, CNN and Fox News were running it as well, complete with political analysis by commentators whose usual sneers were replaced with smiles and open laughter. Three people had been murdered. Frank didn’t think anything about it was funny. He’d waited for one of the commentators to mention it, but not one of them ever did. They had a story and they owned the mike. Frank guessed that they’d milk it for as long as they could. If they were lucky, the run would fill out the TV season into the holidays and beyond.

The door swung open, flooding the edit suite with light. Frank turned and saw Linda lugging a canvas bag filled with video cassettes into the room. She was finally back from her long weekend in Colorado with Jason Hardly.

“We’re almost finished,” Frank said. “How did your trip go?”

She was looking at Juliana and seemed concerned. “Okay,” she said.

“Let’s take a look, Kip.”

There wasn’t a third seat at the client’s table. As Kip rewound the spot, Linda moved to the couch behind them and sat down. When she settled and looked back at him, Frank wondered what was wrong.

Kip switched off the lights, and Frank turned back to watch.

It was a positive spot set to music. The announcer’s voice was soothing but strong, and implied that what Mel Merdock stood for was self-evident. The shots flowed one after another. Merdock striding through a lobby on his way to an important meeting that would never be held. Merdock grabbing a microphone and pointing off camera at a fake press conference in which the future of the world seemed to be at stake. Merdock patting the shoulder of a campaign volunteer dressed up as a cop with his face turned so that no one would know he wasn’t a real cop. Merdock standing beside Juliana outside their church greeting friends and neighbors they had never even met before.

Frank knew that the shots added up to someone the people could trust. Someone who was ready to represent the state of Virginia and get things done on Capitol Hill. At least on TV, Mel Merdock had every appearance of being a real senator now.

VOICE-OVER ANNOUNCER:

He’s the one person running for the U.S. Senate who stood up to the lobbyists and special interest groups. The one person with new ideas. He’s Mel Merdock. Merdock supports a crime bill that puts more cops on the street and more criminals in jail. He wants to modernize schools, expand technology programs so our kids can compete in the global market place. And Mel Merdock has always pushed to lower taxes for middle-class families so that we can restore the values that made our country great. He’s not a politician. He’s Mel Merdock. The change Virginia needs.

Kip spun his chair around and smiled at Frank. Anyone watching the spot might think that Mel Merdock was a direct descendent of Thomas Jefferson or Abraham Lincoln. It was a home run in a campaign that everyone knew had turned the corner.

“There’s something about the last shot,” Juliana said. “Do I really need to be in it?”

Frank laughed. “It’s perfect. Believe me.”

Kip raised the lights to a dim glow. Frank stood up and started packing files into his briefcase.

“Why is it perfect?” she asked.

“Because you’re looking at Mel, and so is everybody else.”

“You mean he’s the focus of the shot.”

Frank nodded, glancing at Linda. She had been watching them closely and had a distant look on her face.

The door opened and Randolph walked in. He seemed hesitant with Juliana and Linda in the room, then stopped before the client’s table.

“Olson’s been released. He’s out.”

Frank looked the detective over. It wasn’t hesitation. Randolph was worried.

“How?” Frank asked.

“We didn’t have enough to hold him. I’m sorry, Frank. He’s got a friend in the courthouse. Some judge who’s willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He talked his way out.”

“Did he say why Woody called him?”

Randolph shook his head. “He wouldn’t speak to anyone but the judge. He’s up to something. He’s an angry drunk and he’s bitter. But he’s still a smart lawyer.”

Frank’s moment of peace had only lasted for ten hours. “What am I supposed to do, lay low and watch my back?”

“Sounds like good advice to me,” Randolph said.

*          *          *

Frank crossed the Memorial Bridge and passed a sign welcoming him to Arlington, Virginia. He cracked open the window and pulled out that pack of cigarettes he kept for emergencies. As he lit up and took a deep pull, he thought about what he was about to do: confront Ozzie Olson, the man who had lost an election two years ago and was having trouble letting go.

Frank had meant to go back to the office for his gun, just in case. But Linda had canceled her edit for unknown reasons, and he didn’t want to be alone with her. Beyond Olson, he didn’t want to hear about her trip to Colorado. Details fueled the imagination and he didn’t want to go down that road right now.

He got rid of his cigarette and focused on Olson again. Making a left at the light, he found himself driving through a run-down part of town, passing a factory and office building, gutted and all burned out. He was looking for 322 Speeker Street, the address the operator had given him over his cell phone. He saw it on the corner, one block ahead, a small red-brick building. He parked and got out. As he crossed the street, he noticed a liquor store, a bail bondsman and a life insurance company all conveniently located in the same low-rent building. Then he spotted the steps leading down to a basement office. A cheap sign read METRO LEGAL, OZZIE OLSON, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW. As the sun went behind a cloud and the building suddenly darkened, Frank wondered if he shouldn’t put aside his rage, get back in the car, and drive home.

Chapter 38

Frank noticed a trash can set beside the door to Olson’s basement office. The top was off, the garbage inside attracting a swarm of flies. Moving down the steps, he waved them away and carefully opened the door. The lights were off. No one appeared to be home. As he entered and closed the door behind him, he let his eyes adjust to the darkness and listened to the stillness.

Dim light feeding in from the street through small windows along the right wall revealed the clutter of a life that had hit bottom. He could smell mildew mixed with sweat and cheap whisky in the air. He stood in a makeshift lobby staring at a narrow passageway that ran to a rear entrance somewhere in the darkness beyond. The passageway split the space in half and there appeared to be an office on each side enclosed by panels of frosted glass.

Frank wiped the empty receptionist’s desk, noting the dust, then started down the passageway. At the first door on the left he stopped and looked inside. Olson had turned the space into a darkroom. The red light remained on, the sink running. As Frank moved into the room, he noticed an enlarger projecting an image of a fleshy woman onto the Formica counter. He checked the sink, finding prints of the same woman rinsing in the water. The woman was nude with hideous blisters and burns all over her body. It looked like a personal injury case and Frank guessed that Olson was making a living any way he could.

Frank stepped back into the darkness, moving further down the passageway until he reached the door on the right. It was Olson’s office. As he entered, he passed a foldout couch with bedding and stopped before a computer set up on a card table by the desk. Picking up a DVD, he found a box of ten more, all unlabeled, all blanks. When he spotted Olson’s business cards, he moved a liquor bottle aside and pocketed one.

The place was a dump.

Frank knew that Olson had been a partner at a major law firm just a few short years ago. He had been successful, an opponent Frank had feared as he prepared Helen Pryor for the election. Now, as he sat down at the man’s desk, he couldn’t help feeling mesmerized by the plunge Olson had taken.

On the wall were the markers pointing to Olson’s former life: Attorney of the Year, Person of the Year, more than one Great Dad Award. Losing an election was part of the business no one liked to think about. The fear of what a client went through if he or she was the candidate left holding the short end of the stick. The quality of darkness that followed them after election night, weighing them down for months, years, sometimes even a lifetime. It was the label of a loser. The brand of someone who didn’t have the right stuff and had let everyone around them down. Frank had lived through it with his own clients and knew with certainty that he would face it again. But experience didn’t make it any easier.

The back door opened and Frank heard footsteps.

He jumped out of the chair, his heart racing. They were moving toward him slowly and Frank wondered if he should stick it out or make a run for it to his car. But it wasn’t Olson who appeared in the doorway. Instead, a spooky old man poked his head inside the office and gave him a long look.

“You fellas still here?” the old man said in an irritated voice. “I was just coming down to lock up. That other cop said you’d be done by noon.”

Switching on the overhead light, the old man shuffled into the room and sat down on the arm of the couch. He let out a groan, jingling the ring of keys in his hand. He was thin and frail and had the weightless body of someone who had been ravaged by too many cigarettes and too much booze. Frank realized that the old man had mistaken him for a cop. And playing along with him seemed like the easiest way out of the office, the quickest way back to his car.

“Almost,” he said awkwardly. “What do you know about Olson?”

“What do I know about him?” the old man quipped. “I’ve already been through that with the other fella. Randolph, Rudolph—I forget his name.”

Frank moved back to the desk chair, eyeing the computer as he sat down. “Does Olson do much work?”

“Depends on how the ambulances are running, I guess.”

Frank glanced at the liquor bottles on the desk, then back at the old man. “You ever have a drink with him?”

The old man shrugged, hiding a guilty smile.

“What’s he talk about mostly?” Frank asked.

“The election,” the old man said. “How the guy who beat him cheated and lied. Ozzie got fired after that. He lost his job. He lost his wife and family and everyone of his friends. That’s all he ever talks about.”

“I thought he ran against a woman?”

“He did. But it was the guy running her campaign. Some big shot. He’s the one who did this to him.”

Frank heard the sound of a fly buzzing around the room and wondered if he had left the front door open. He looked at the overhead light and watched the insect crash into the globe, take a few steps and begin circling in the musty air again.

“Then Olson’s divorced,” Frank said evenly.

The old man shook his head. “Not yet. He’s hoping that she’ll take him back.”

“Where is he?”

“He had to meet somebody. Then he said he wanted to visit his kids.”

The old man gave Frank another long look, then stood up on his shaky legs. As he moved to the door, he stopped a moment, gazing at the plaques on the wall.

“Politics sure is a dirty business, ain’t it? Two years ago Ozzie was at the top. Sweet Jesus, now he lives down here!”

The old man’s words hit Frank like a slap in the face.

He watched the old man shuffle through the doorway and vanish around the corner. When he heard the back door close and the sound of the old man starting up the steps, he swiveled the chair around until he faced the desk. He noticed his hand trembling slightly as his eyes came to rest on the speaker phone. When he saw the redial button, he pushed it and the phone came to life. Frank listened to it dial a number, his mind drifting over the details of the election. Olson had managed to leave a few points out as he recounted his story to the old man over whisky. Frank remembered Olson’s media consultant running a negative campaign from the very beginning. Olson signed off on it and they were tearing Helen Pryor apart. It was a dirty campaign bordering on vicious and designed to appeal to the religious right. The fanatics were eating it up like Olson had the only direct line to God. In their hit pieces sent through the mail, Helen was labeled a baby killer. On TV, the insinuations were just as subtle. It had been hardball politics until the end and Olson had lost everything. But the old man only confirmed what Randolph and Grimes had said. Olson blamed Frank for the loss. He’d snapped and now three people were dead.

The phone began to ring, then connect—the voice at the other end jogging Frank’s mind back to the surface slowly at first, then with a violent snap. He knew the voice and felt a sudden pain in his chest as everything inside him cut to black.

It was Linda.

The voice said it was as her answering machine picked up from home. “This is Linda Reynolds. I’m sorry I can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave a message, I’ll call you back. Thanks for calling.”

The phone beeped. Frank sat there staring at it, listening to the silence at the other end of the line. He could hear his heart pounding beneath his shirt and watched as a bead of sweat dropped from his forehead splattering onto the desk.

Ozzie Olson had engineered Woody’s murder and was speaking with Linda. They were in touch.

The phone clicked, followed by dial tone. Frank looked away, spotting a photograph of Olson with his wife and two kids. They were standing in front of their country home, smiling, happy, everything in their lives just right. Frank recognized the photo from the campaign. It had appeared in a brochure after Olson was endorsed by every newspaper in the state. At the time, no one thought Olson could lose.

Frank picked up the photo and looked at it more closely, the dial tone echoing off the walls and into his head. There was no easy way out of Olson’s office now. No fast way of getting back to his car. Linda was holding him down and he couldn’t move.

Chapter 39

The photograph of Olson’s country house came to life as Frank drove over a two-lane bridge, crossed a small river and saw the idyllic home in the distance. Pulling off the road, he cut the engine and dropped the photo into his glove box.

The house was set on a hill just above the river. A big white stucco job with a rear terrace overlooking the valley which was still free of asphalt roads and other houses. Frank had passed the end of the makeshift suburban nightmare about ten miles back and figured the view from Olson’s house would last another two or three years before progress chopped it down.

A kite flapped in the sky overhead.

Frank followed the line down to the ground until he saw Olson’s wife and two young children move into the backyard from the other side of the house. Olson’s wife wore a man’s leather flight jacket over a long purple dress. At first glance, she looked a little round. But when she turned, he could see the breeze filling out her dress. The woman appeared wholesome, even pretty.

The kite rose a hundred yards in the air and would take time to reel in. Frank guessed the boy to be six or seven, the girl a few years younger than that. Even from a distance he could hear them giggling as they gazed at their mother and struggled to hold onto the thin line with unpracticed hands. The entire scene had a storybook feel to it. A long way from where Ozzie Olson lived now.

Bright light flashed through the car and then vanished. Frank turned to the river and squinted as the sunlight kicked off the wet rocks. Tall reeds stood ten feet off the ground and lined the slow-moving water on both sides. The strong breeze shook the grassy plants in waves, filling the clean afternoon air with a rustling sound.

The thought of Linda somehow being involved with Olson began to surface again and Frank fought to keep it down. He knew people experienced grief in different ways and that he was letting Woody’s death get to him. He hadn’t noticed it before. The frequent headaches over the past few days, his burning stomach. He had been fighting the grief, thinking he could work through it or put it off until after the election. Now his mind seemed like it was turning on him.

Linda and the money.

He remembered their meeting with the accountant. The glow on her face as she got the news. With Woody gone, they’d split the money not by three but by only two. Each would receive an additional $1.7 million because of Woody’s death.

Frank took a deep breath and went over it again. While murders had been committed for much less, the idea of Linda being involved in this was delusional. He could trust her with his life. There had to be a reasonable explanation for why she and Olson were talking to each other.

The light in the car brightened again. Frank noticed that it wasn’t coming from the water. Instead, the sun was spiking off something in the reeds that had the reflective feel of a small mirror. Frank kept his eyes on the spot, studying the tall grass. After several minutes, the wind picked up and he spotted the form of a man hiding on the other side of the river.

Frank got out of the car and crossed the bridge. A dirt road followed the river, bordering a field that had already lost its color and turned gray. The ground was still wet from the weekend rain. Sidestepping the mud, Frank slipped into the reeds, heard a metallic click and froze.

It was a camera with a motor drive attached. That white-hot reflection he’d seen had come from a lens.

Frank inched toward the sound. When he heard it again, he stopped and waited, trying to get a bearing on the location and distance. The wind picked up. As the reeds began to swirl, he saw the man leaning against an old pickup truck just ahead. Frank lowered himself into the grass. There could be no doubt. It was Ozzie Olson, spying on his own family with a long lens.

Frank had only met Olson the few times he agreed to debate Helen Pryor. He looked bigger than Frank remembered, older and more menacing. His face had turned pale, his eyes darker than a raccoon’s. Standing this close, Frank could see what the man’s thirst for revenge had done to him. Revenge had its own way of growing, not in the light, but in the dark. And Olson had every appearance of being a man who’d spent a lot of time in the dark.

Frank watched Olson frame his camera, the motor drive bursting through another series of rapid-fire shots. When he pulled the camera away, he looked dazed. Lost in thought, Frank guessed. Lost in the vision of what he once had and wanted to get back.

The wind let up, the tall grass rising all around him until it obscured his view. Frank didn’t move. He looked into the sky, but could no longer find the kite. After a moment, he heard a rustling sound. He thought that Olson might be moving toward him and searched the ground for a rock. But then the sound stopped. A car door opened and closed and an engine started. When he heard Olson drive off, he parted the tall grass and watched the pickup heading further down the dirt road.

Frank legged it over the bridge to his Lexus, made a U-turn and started down the muddy dirt road after Olson. He could see the pickup in the distance. The road followed the course of the sleepy river, cutting a winding path to the horizon. Frank assumed that it was an access road for farmers further down the way, but had no real idea where the road was leading him. Curiosity seemed to be pulling him forward and he lit a cigarette, wondering where a man went after spying on his wife and children with a long-lens camera.

The sun was nesting in the trees. He caught a glimpse of the pickup through the grass, watching it disappear around a bend. He took it slow and easy. He passed landmarks, two log cabins from the Revolution and a battery of artillery marking a small hill from the Civil War. Then the road broke from the river bed and made a slow turn into the woods.

His cell phone rang. Frank flipped it open, ready to hear Tracy asking him where he’d been for the last two hours.

“Is this Frank Miles?” the voice started.

It was a familiar voice, a man’s voice, but Frank couldn’t place it.

“Yeah,” he said. “Who’s this?”

“Your conscience,” the voice snarled back at him. “Fuck you.”

He heard the line click. The rear end of his car took a sudden hit and shuddered. When he checked the rearview mirror, he saw Olson in his pickup behind him. Olson had known Frank was there all along. The drive into the woods had been deliberate. The word premeditated came to mind.

Frank tightened his grip on the wheel and hit the gas. The Lexus thrust forward as his foot touched the floor and backed off. He could see Olson picking up speed, trying to catch up. Frank couldn’t believe his mistake. He’d walked right into it on a lonely dirt road in the middle of nowhere. If the hole was deep enough, he imagined, his body might never be found.

The road was slick with mud and wet leaves. He hit what looked like a puddle, but it was deep. The car bottomed out and then fishtailed, the rear end catching a tree and smashing into a bolder. Frank looked through the windshield at Olson approaching and turned the key. The car restarted. He threw the shift back into drive, glanced at Olson again and floored it. The car began to shake. He could feel the tires churning up mud and gravel. Turning the wheel into the road, he let the tires dig their way through the debris. When they found something hard enough to grip, the car began moving again—the vibration fading as he picked up speed and headed deeper into the woods.

Frank guessed that Olson’s truck was ten to fifteen years old. It was heavy, built high off the ground. And Olson probably had a good feel for the road—knew where the thing went and how it got there. Frank checked the rearview mirror again. Olson was taking the curves short, plowing over the brush and knocking small trees down.

When he looked away from the mirror, Frank saw an oak tree charging toward him. He wrenched the wheel to the right. The car skipped off the road and nearly rolled. Frank grit his teeth and kept his foot on the accelerator, trying to work through it. Shaving two small evergreens away from their roots, he hit a rock and bounced back onto the road.

He’d survived, but lost his distance. Olson hit him hard, the weight of the truck pushing him forward. His bumper broke loose, and he saw Olson roll over it, gain speed and plow into him again.

Frank gunned it, the Lexus rocking faster and faster as he pushed seventy, seventy-five and then eighty on the muddy road. He was pulling away, beginning to make distance now. And the surface of the road was changing. There was more gravel in it, his wheels digging the stones up and beating them into the underside of the car. Frank took it as a sign that he wasn’t headed into the woods, but on his way out. Once he reached asphalt, the Lexus could easily outrun Olson’s pickup.

He spotted the curve ahead and leaned into it as he turned the wheel to the left. The curve sharpened. The road rushing at him from behind the corner seemed almost endless. Then without warning, the car shot up a sudden rise and lifted into the air. Frank felt his stomach drop. Three or four seconds passed in slow-motion before the car pitched forward, fell thirty feet and hit the ground below. He could see the end of the road rushing toward him, a small boat launch at the river’s edge. As he jammed his foot on the brake, the car began twisting and skidding out of control.

The car felt like it was shaking apart but finally stopped. Then Frank shifted into reverse and floored it but nothing happened. He stuck his head out the window and saw the front tire grinding a hole in the mud. When he spotted Olson’s pickup moving down the hill, he gunned it again, his tire spraying muck into the air, unable to find hard ground.

Olson got out of his pickup and started walking toward him with a crowbar in his hand. Frank ripped open the door and jumped out thinking that he’d just been handed his ticket and was the world’s next dead man.

“Easy, Olson,” he said as they faced off. “Easy. You look like you could use a drink to calm down. Let’s go get a drink and calm down.”

Olson glanced at the Lexus, then turned back with the crowbar. “What you did to me isn’t a game, Frank. Not anymore.”

It hung there, with Olson chewing it over. Frank could see it as he stood there—Olson’s mind churning up the past.

“Why are you talking to Linda?” Frank asked.

The churning stopped. Olson’s eyes drifted up the hill and parked on the gravel road that Frank knew was the only way out.

“Have you been snooping around my office, Frank?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I had a good look. You’ve hit bottom. Killing Woody should’ve been your wake-up call, you crazy son-of-a-bitch.”

Olson swung the crowbar. Frank grabbed it, drove the big man back and hit him in the face with a closed fist. Olson’s head snapped back. As he lost his balance and fell, he let go of the crowbar and hit the ground with a heavy groan. Frank gave him a look and stepped back. Olson rolled onto his side, trying to catch his breath.

“It never stops, does it?” Olson said in a low voice.

Frank picked up the crowbar, wondering what he’d do with it if Olson made a move. “What’s that, Olson?”

Olson looked up at him from the ground. “You ruined me,” he said. “And now you’re doing the same thing to Lou Kay and his daughter. You’d do anything to get Merdock elected, wouldn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

Olson grimaced. “The Senate race in Virginia,” he said. “Lou Kay’s daughter. I thought kids were off-limits. And what about the man’s ex-wife? How much did it cost you to pay her off? How low can you go?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Olson didn’t answer, all three hundred pounds of him shaking with anger. It took considerable effort to lift himself off the ground. When he finally got to his feet, he was out of breath and unable to catch the drool slipping out of his mouth. He wiped his chin and turned to Frank’s car, eyeing the left front tire.

“Dig yourself out of the mud,” he said, walking off. “You ought to be pretty good at it by now.”

Frank watched Olson climb into his truck and settle in behind the wheel.

“What about Linda, Olson? What were the two of you talking about?”

Olson flashed a dark smile, lifting his camera and pointing it at him. He snapped three quick shots off. When he lowered the lens, his smile was gone.

“It’s the wrong time to be alone,” he said in an ominous voice. “If I were you, Frank, I’d be more careful. It’s dangerous now.”

Olson held the glance, then turned the pickup around and finally drove off, his words lingering as the sound of the truck’s engine faded slowly over the hill.

Aside from the murders, Frank had no idea what Olson had been talking about or why he’d brought up the Merdock/Kay race for the Senate. Frank was aware that Kay was divorced and had a nineteen-year-old daughter. But he had never considered them issues and certainly hadn’t done anything to them. What did Olson know that he didn’t? Even more troubling, why was Olson even following the race?

Frank turned back to his car. It looked like a wreck that had washed up from the river after a flood. The battery on his cell phone was dead and he couldn’t find the power cable that plugged into the lighter on the dash. Somehow he had to dig the car out and get back into town.

Chapter 40

Two hours later Frank burst into the war room. Tracy must have heard him climbing the stairs. When he entered, she looked anxious, but ready.

“What the hell’s going on, Tracy?”

“The media room,” she said. “Hurry.”

He followed her inside, watching her grab the remote. Frank turned to the monitor as a picture faded up. Olson had been right. Something unexpected had happened in the Merdock/Kay race and Tracy had recorded the broadcast from MSNBC. Lou Kay’s ex-wife Sylvia was standing before a courthouse talking to the press. In her late forties with blond hair, the image reminded Frank of the tasteless parade of women fighting to be heard during the dark days of the Clinton era. But this piece had something more. It included video of Lou Kay’s daughter, a sophomore at college, being led away in handcuffs by campus police.

“Lou Kay’s campaign is blowing up,” Tracy said. “His daughter was arrested on Friday in a sex-for-drugs scandal at college. Kay’s ex-wife used it to come forward. She’s saying that she divorced Kay because he beat her.”

“Bullshit.”

Frank exploded out of his chair and started pacing. Tracy flinched, her eyes moving from Frank’s muddy shoes and slacks to her notepad.

“Kay’s denying it,” she said. “He’s calling for, quote, an end to the politics of personal destruction—where have you been, Frank?”

“With Ozzie Olson.” He saw her flinch again at the mention of Olson’s name. “He knew all about it, Tracy. Why didn’t we? Where’s Linda?”

Tracy steadied herself against the table. “Editing. She rescheduled. She’ll probably go all night.”

“But I didn’t do this,” he shouted.

Tracy looked back at him, confused. “I don’t understand why you’re upset. This is enough to put Merdock over the top, Frank. He’s been trying to reach you ever since the story broke after lunch.”

“It’s bullshit. You’ve seen the research.”

Tracy ripped the top sheet of paper off her notepad and handed it to him. “Sylvia Kay,” she said. “Here’s her address. She’s not answering the phone.”

*          *          *

Frank’s Lexus hadn’t survived his meeting with Olson at the end of the road. Although he managed to rock the car out of the mud and limp back into the city, that thirty-foot plunge at high-speed had damaged the steering column and bent the frame. Now he found himself driving a metallic blue Chevy loaned out by Mid-Town Cars & Wagon. The car was a non-smoker. Frank cracked the window open and lit up, checking the new battery on his cell phone as he wandered through a middle-class neighborhood in suburban Virginia. He called Mario, but hit his voice mail. He left a message, filling him in and saying that they needed to meet tonight at the usual spot before the Lincoln Memorial.

Oakmont Road was just ahead. Frank made a right, counting the street numbers on the mailboxes. Set on half-acre lots, the split-level homes looked almost identical, some in need of repair and others not. When he spotted 621, he pulled over and parked.

Sylvia Kay’s house was one of the group in need of repair. As he got out of the car and walked down the drive, he saw Lou Kay’s daughter in a bedroom window staring out at the trees. From the blank look on her face, Frank guessed that she had been crying and wasn’t really looking at the trees.

Keenly aware of the sound of a man and woman arguing, Frank approached the door and rang the bell. The voices quieted and the door snapped open quickly. Lou Kay glared at him from the other side of the storm door. His ex-wife Sylvia was standing behind him, annoyed by the intrusion even though she looked angry and upset and even a little frightened. Kay eyed Frank for a moment and then slammed the door in his face.

Frank hit the bell again. When the door finally reopened, it wasn’t Lou Kay with his ex-wife. This time it was Kay’s media consultant, Stewart Brown.

Brown unlocked the storm door and stepped outside. His clothes were tight, his bloated form moving like a man who had just eaten too much dinner and was mulling over the possibilities of desert. He was sweating, his beady eyes darting between Frank and the front yard.

“You don’t play fair,” Brown said finally. “I’d been waiting for something, Frank. I just didn’t think it would be this ugly.”

“I didn’t do it, Brown. And fuck you if you say I did.”

Brown met Frank’s eyes. “I know we’re fucked, so I guess I’m saying you did.”

“I want to talk to her. Someone put her up to this.”

When Frank reached for the door, Brown stepped in front of him and pulled his cell phone out.

“You’re not talking to anyone,” Brown said. “Get off the property, Frank, or we’ll make headlines because I’m calling the cops.”

*          *          *

The idea of another woman standing before a courthouse unloading gossip on a politician was more than Frank could take. Especially when he knew that Sylvia Kay was lying. Mario’s research on Lou Kay had been more than thorough. Frank knew everything about the man from the time he entered school as a young boy. Kay’s past was so clean, the only thing Mario could come up with was that the carwash he used hired illegals. Every carwash in America hired illegals. That’s why Frank had resorted to talk radio. Mel Merdock was pulling ahead of Lou Kay with smoke and mirrors. Frank’s negative campaign had no basis in fact. He was using attitude the whole way.

Now someone had stepped into the mix thinking that they could decimate Lou Kay’s campaign with two quick blows. His ex-wife Sylvia was calling him a wife beater on TV. His daughter’s arrest at college had probably been a setup, too. Frank doubted that any of this had been the ex-wife’s idea. Someone had gotten to her. Someone with money who had a vicious streak and didn’t see the full implications of what they had done.

A wave of fear moved through Frank as he pulled into the lot and saw Juliana on her horse at the Fox Hunt Riding Club. She was alone, passing beneath a gate and riding toward the stable on a magnificent stallion.

Frank got out of the Chevy. When she spotted him and waved, she looked surprised to see him, then delighted. Frank crossed the lot and watched her dismount. She pulled her hat off, shook loose her hair and smiled.

“We’re gonna win now, aren’t we?” she said excitedly.

Frank grimaced. “We need to talk.”

She read his face and her smile faded. Then she pulled the reins over the horse’s head and started walking toward the stable.

They entered from the middle. The stable looked new and was large enough to keep fifty horses in a degree of comfort most people never enjoyed. Once they reached the center aisle, Juliana pointed to the left and began leading them toward a stall at the very end. Frank kept his eyes on her as she guided the horse along.

“But I thought you did it,” she said.

Frank shook his head. “What about Mel?”

“He’s not that smart,” she said, thinking it over. “Jake isn’t either.”

“Smart?”

She turned sharply.

“We had this thing turned around, Juliana. The election would’ve been close, but everything was going our way.”

“I don’t understand what’s wrong. When I saw the news, I couldn’t believe that it was happening. We’re still gonna win, right?”

She didn’t get it. He tried to keep his voice down.

“Whoever did this handed Stewart Brown a silver bullet. He doesn’t see it yet, but he will. And he’ll use it. It’s in his nature to use it.”

Her face flushed with uncertainty. Frank met her eyes.

“Don’t you see?” he said. “If none of this is true, then they’ve been smeared. If Stewart Brown can prove that they were smeared, then everyone will think we did it. Your husband will be the rich guy who paid Lou Kay’s ex-wife to lie and destroyed his innocent daughter’s life. I couldn’t fix what Stewart Brown could do with that. No one could. Your husband’s career in politics would be over forever. He’d lose this election in a landslide.”

She didn’t say anything. But as she tethered the horse outside the stall, Frank could tell that she finally understood. Whoever got to Lou Kay’s ex-wife had made a terrible miscalculation. It was a high-risk move that Frank thought could easily backfire and probably would.

Juliana looked down the aisle. Frank followed her gaze and saw a trainer leading a young girl and her horse out of the stable at the other end. They were alone. Juliana turned away and stepped into the stall. Frank watched her sit on a bale of hay by the window and cross her legs.

“What if she did it on her own?” Juliana asked. “They’re divorced, right? What if she’s making it up to get back at her husband for something we don’t know about?”

“That doesn’t explain the daughter,” he said.

“There’s not much time left, Frank. What if Lou Kay’s people can’t prove they were smeared? What if everyone believes he beat his wife?”

He stared at her as he thought it over. What was left of the afternoon sun fell through the window casting her entire body in a milky red glow. Her lips were parted, her eyes reaching out to him again.

“Then we win,” he said, still concerned and in a bad mood.

Chapter 41

Olson sat before his computer, highlighting the thumbnail pictures of Mel Merdock doing the dirty deed with his girlfriend. Black hair, voluptuous—when he hit the delete key and the images vanished, it almost hurt.

He checked the time. 4:25 p.m. If he wanted to make the post office, he’d have to be out the door in twenty minutes.

He turned back to the monitor and brought another window up. It was a stripped down editing program that had come with the software bundle he’d purchased with the computer. Two time lines appeared on the screen. On the top, Olson had already laid out the pictures that he’d saved of Merdock with his girlfriend. There were thirty, each one carefully selected from his second and third trips through the kitchen window and up those dark stairs. The time line on the bottom of the screen carried the audio track. Olson highlighted the sound and locked it to the picture. Then he named the file Meet Mel Merdock, slid a blank DVD into the computer drive and hit COPY.

The hard drive chattered like a popcorn popper, copying his short piece of filmmaking onto the DVD. It may have been short, but the byte count on the file was huge. While he waited, he disconnected the microphone from his computer and tossed the script that he’d written into the trash. Then he double-checked the address on the mailer.

It was time to make a run for it. Far enough away so that he would be safe, but within range so that he could watch until things shook out. He needed to see things shake out, and hoped that he would be close enough to see Frank’s face when they did. Meet Mel Merdock would be a surprise—no doubt an unwanted surprise—but Olson knew that he had to take the risk now.

The computer quieted and the lights on the drives went dark. Olson ejected the DVD and slipped it into a paper sleeve. As he attached a label, he checked his watch. Time to spare. He slid the DVD into the mailer and sealed the flap. Turning back to the computer, he highlighted the picture and audio tracks and deleted the project files. Then he grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. His stomach was growling. After the post office, he thought about getting something to eat before returning to pack.

Chapter 42

Frank arrived at the memorial a few minutes early. He lit a cigarette and gazed at Lincoln sitting before him peacefully in the darkness. It seemed out of place with everything so unsettled. When he turned, he spotted Mario hurrying past the Reflecting Pool fifty yards off. He had someone with him. At first glance it looked like Bobby, the photographer Frank had met at the president’s fund-raiser. But when they finally reached the steps and moved into the light, he realized his mistake. They were about the same age, but this kid looked harder, less innocent, the thin and nervous type.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

“Eddie,” Mario said quickly. “He works with me sometimes. Freelance. My research was good, Frank. Lou Kay didn’t beat his ex-wife. His daughter was set up, too.”

“I told you that on the phone. Why did you bring Eddie?”

“Tell him, Eddie. Everything you told me.”

The kid stepped forward, then hesitated. It wasn’t nervousness, Frank realized. It was fear. Something had happened and the kid was in over his head.

“Woody hired me to do negative research on your client. It was on the QT. He said that he was worried about you.”

Eddie stopped to catch his breath. He had everyone’s attention now.

“Keep going,” Frank said.

“Merdock’s got this woman in Georgetown. Her name’s Beth Williams. Young. Sexy. Looks like his wife only she’s got tits out to here. He put her up in a nice house and liked to boss her around. He spent a lot of time over there. Two, three nights a week. Didn’t leave until just before dawn.”

Frank got rid of the cigarette, his face flushed with anger and frustration.

“Woody felt the same way,” the kid said in a shaky voice. “He wanted to see for himself, so I took him along.”

Frank turned to Mario. “We were partners. Friends. Why didn’t he say anything to me?”

“Let him finish, Frank.”

Mario’s eyes were burning. Frank turned back to Eddie, bracing himself.

“We were in the front yard,” the kid said after a moment. “We heard shouting and a door slam. Then a guy ran out from the back. That guy in the papers you beat up in the last election with the porno spot.”

“Ozzie Olson?” Frank asked.

Eddie nodded. “He must have taken pictures of Merdock screwing the girl.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Olson had a camera. Your client was chasing him. He didn’t have any clothes on.”

Frank shook his head. “Did Merdock get to Olson?”

“He never saw him,” Eddie said. “He saw us. Olson was already down the street. Your client looked right at us. We jumped in the car and took off.”

The news felt like a knockout punch, yet everything was becoming clearer. Merdock had been caught. But he hadn’t seen Olson. He’d seen Woody. He’d made him.

“Where’s the girl?” Frank asked.

“She does TV commercials for a used car dealer in Dallas. She spends two weeks here, two weeks there. Sorry I had to be the one to tell you this. Woody was afraid that the campaign would blow up in your face. He told me that you wouldn’t believe him unless we had the pictures. He said that you’d need proof. He was trying to reach Olson, but wound up dead.”

Frank gave him a long look. Eddie shifted his weight, nervously diverting his eyes. Then Mario stepped forward.

“You see where this is going, don’t you?”

Frank nodded, connecting the dots as Mario said the words out loud.

“Olson wanted to pay you back for that spot so he starts following your client. He stumbles onto the affair and gets pictures, Frank. He thinks he’s hit the jackpot. He thinks he’s lucky. He sends your rich clients a sample photo for their album, looking for a pay day to keep quiet even though he’s never gonna keep quiet. The trouble is your clients don’t know anything about Olson.”

“They think it’s Woody,” Frank said, staring into the void. “They murder Woody trying to cover up the affair.”

It settled in like poison gas. Tourists were skipping up the steps to the memorial with smiles on their faces. Somewhere in the background, a child could be heard whining. After they passed, Frank turned back to Eddie.

“What did you tell Olson?”

The kid shrugged and seemed surprised. “Nothing.”

Frank turned away and started moving, one step after the next until he was running toward his car. He’d been as far off track as the police, but he could see it now. Olson making an anonymous play to the Merdocks with his pictures. The Merdocks thinking that it was Woody. Instead of taking the hit in the polls and riding it out, instead of making a payoff or even backing out of the race—his clients had chosen the dark way out and brought in the man with spiked gray hair.

It took his breath away. Woody trying to be helpful. Frank’s psycho client taking him down.

“Where are you going?” Mario called after him.

“Olson made the papers,” he shouted back. “They know about him now.”

Olson had managed to stay in the background until his arrest. When the story broke, the Merdocks would have been aware of their blunder. Olson hated Frank and was out for revenge. His motive for trying to destroy Merdock couldn’t be more obvious. Frank had to find him, talk to him, warn him.

He saw the Chevy ahead and sprinted toward it. As he ripped open the door, he pulled Olson’s business card out of his pocket and punched the number into his cell phone. He was thinking about Juliana. How she lied to him, deceived him, played the innocent wife while planning the murder of his partner and friend. And then his meeting with Olson by the river—the words Olson had used just before he drove off.

It’s the wrong time to be alone. If I were you, Frank, I’d be more careful. It’s dangerous now.

Chapter 43

Olson’s pickup was gone. Carrying a bottle of cheap whisky in a paper bag, Raymond walked down the steps to his office and examined the lock. It was a Citizen Bulldog, made in China. No deadbolt here. He leaned the bag against the door jam and glanced at the empty street as he reached into his jacket for his tools. The cheap lock released as soon as he inserted the first pick. Anyone watching would have thought that he’d used a key.

He opened the door, grabbed the whisky and stepped inside. A musty smell hit him before he even swung the door closed. There was sweat and dust in the air, the unmistakable scent of mildew.

Olson lived like an animal.

Raymond checked his latex gloves, wiggling his fingers and stretching them tighter across his hands. The bacteria count in this hole was probably off the charts. Raymond kept a bottle of vitamin C in his shaving kit. As he took in Olson’s lobby, he made a mental note to increase his dosage by 500 milligrams as soon as he returned to his motel room.

Raymond had been watching Olson ever since that story appeared in The Post. Olson was an unknown factor in the mix. Someone he had never heard of. Getting acquainted with the man’s history had been as easy as watching TV. According to Fox News, Olson had been defeated by Frank Miles and still held a grudge. Raymond understood why when he saw the political ad in its entirety. Olson had been caught walking out of a porno theater with his fly down. Branded as a pervert, he lost the election in a landslide. Fox News played the ad every fifteen minutes, making it impossible to miss.

Raymond cringed at the thought of his client giving him bad information. It was so typical. He should have foreseen the problem weeks ago. After shooting Woody dead, he’d searched every inch of his office and not found the photos. He’d even driven over to Woody’s house and wasted three hours going through the place room by room.

The body count was rising and he needed to be sure this time. Maybe it was Olson, but maybe it wasn’t. As late as this morning, he was still wrestling with it when he saw Olson leave the office with a camera slung over his shoulder. Now his thoughts were confirmed as he moved down the passageway and looked in Olson’s darkroom.

The man liked to take pictures.

The phone rang. Raymond followed the sound further down the passageway until he reached Olson’s office. Resting the whisky bottle on the desk, he noticed that the answering machine was turned off. Olson probably did it himself after getting too many press calls. The phone rang four times past the usual eight and finally stopped.

In the silence, Raymond glanced at the computer. A window was blinking on and off indicating that files had been deleted successfully. What was that about? Sliding the wastebasket out from beneath the desk, he dumped the contents on the floor and got started. He’d search the office and work his way into the darkroom. It would be a long night. When Olson got back, they’d party.

Chapter 44

Frank ripped through the automatic shift, wheeling the Chevy down Constitution Avenue as if he were hitting the Beltway. He needed to reach Olson but no one had picked up. He dug Olson’s card out of his pocket, checking the number with the one he’d entered into his cell phone. They were the same and he decided to try again in five minutes.

Frank made a right at the light, then a left and saw Linda’s Explorer parked at the curb outside Vintage Video. He pulled into the alley, jumped out and raced down the sidewalk.

When he pushed open the door to Edit 1, he found Linda and Kip in the middle of cutting a new spot. Linda was dressed in a gray skirt, navy tights, and a sweater Frank had always liked. From the look on her face, he could tell that he was interrupting.

“Linda’s finished for the night,” he said, grabbing her by the arm.

“What’s wrong with you?” she shouted.

There wasn’t time to explain that even though he knew she hadn’t committed murder, she had been talking to Olson and betrayed him. He yanked her out of the chair and pushed her through the door. Once they were in the elevator, he flipped open his cell phone and hit the redial button. He wouldn’t hang up until Olson answered or the battery went dead.

“What is it, Frank? What’s wrong?”

The elevator opened. He pulled her through the lobby and ran her down the sidewalk, pushing her into the Chevy. After the car was rolling, he finally spoke.

“Olson’s got pictures of Merdock in bed with someone.”

“A man or a woman?”

Frank gave her a look, weaving through traffic with the phone to his ear. Her green eyes were bright with anger. They were picking up speed and she reached for her seatbelt.

“With a woman,” he said. “Stop acting like you don’t know what’s going on.”

“I don’t know what’s going on.”

She braced herself against the door and seemed frightened by the way he was driving. Frank turned and looked at the traffic ahead. The signal lights between here and the bridge were out again.

“I want to know why you were talking to Olson,” he said. “I need to know what we’re walking into.”

Her skin flushed. “But I wasn’t talking to him.”

He grimaced, angrily jumping the curb and flooring it through the intersection as he jammed the horn.

“You’re lying,” he said. “I hit Olson’s redial button. Your machine picked up.”

She looked confused. “Someone’s been calling,” she said. “I’ve been getting hang-ups ever since Woody died. I thought it was you.”

“You’re saying that you’ve never talked to Olson?”

She nodded, wiping her cheeks. Frank turned back to the road.

Chapter 45

Olson dug into the bag, searching the bottom for leftover onion rings and more salt.

He’d gone over it so many times. His plan had been so simple. Once he presented Merdock with sample photos of his sexual exploits, it should have been nothing more than a business decision. If Merdock wanted to buy the series, Olson would have sent the pictures to him after they agreed on a price. If a deal couldn’t have been reached, then the pictures would have been leaked to the press and Merdock would have faced the consequences on his own. Privately, of course, Olson had always planned on releasing the pictures no matter what Merdock decided. He’d made the decision a long time ago. It was his turn to stick the knife in Frank Miles’s back.

But he hadn’t anticipated their violent reaction. It had never even entered his mind.

Olson finished off his Coke and got out of the pickup. As he walked down the steps to his office, he heard the phone ringing and dumped everything in the trash. Then he unlocked the door and hurried inside. He hoped that it was his wife calling. They’d spoken earlier in the day and it had gone well. He wanted to say good-bye to her. He’d make an excuse and tell her that he was going away on business for a week or two. By then, he hoped, it would all blow over.

He hurried down the hall into his office. As he reached for the phone, he noticed his night-vision goggles on the desk. He didn’t remember taking them out and wondered why they weren’t in their case with his camera collection in the darkroom.

He brought the phone to his ear and said hello.

“Jesus, Olson, where the fuck have you been?”

It was Frank Miles on a cell phone. He was shouting at him and he sounded freaked. Sensing movement from the hall, Olson turned to the door and nearly jumped out of his skin. A strange-looking man was staring at him from the darkroom. Olson flinched as the man raised a gun and pointed it at him, stepping into the light and moving toward him slowly.

“Are you there?” Frank screamed through the static.

Olson stammered. “At the post office,” he said finally. “I was at the post office.”

“They’re on to you. They know you’ve got the pictures. We need to talk. You’ve gotta get out of there.”

Olson felt the muzzle of the gun press against his forehead and closed his eyes. His body began to shake as he realized the terrible mistake he’d made. He should have gone to Frank as soon as he figured out what really happened to Woody. He should have told Frank the whole thing. Eaten his pride and laid it out to him. But Olson couldn’t see it like he was seeing it now. He couldn’t get past the hate.

“We can figure this out,” Frank was saying. “But you need to get out of there.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Sure.”

“Jesus, is he there?” Frank said. “Gray hair? A long crew? Spiked?”

Olson opened his eyes and gazed at the man’s hair. He felt the phone being taken away from him and watched the man hang it up. Frank’s voice disappeared and the room suddenly quieted. Before the man turned back, Olson noticed his script on the desk. The one that he’d thrown in the trash. Meet Mel Merdock. It was over, he realized, his fate sealed. He hoped that it wouldn’t hurt.

Chapter 46

Tape 3, side 2 snapped into Raymond’s head as he looked at Olson trembling before him: running a meeting, positive communications with your executive assistant, making your client feel at ease. Raymond didn’t need the tape because he could repeat it verbatim. Communicating was his great talent, especially when he had a clear view of the end.

Raymond could tell by the way Olson rolled his tongue over his lips that his mouth was dry and they were on the same page. He lowered the gun and took a step back, sizing the man up. Olson looked terrified. He’d been gazing at that script on his desk and had just noticed the bottle of whisky. From the little that Raymond knew about him, Olson had a long list of personal problems. If he’d kept his nose in his own business, he might have had time to deal with them.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked Olson.

It was the right question, Raymond thought. The one that he’d been asking himself for the past two days. Bitterness always bit back.

“What you’re looking for isn’t here,” Olson whispered.

Raymond flashed a bittersweet smile, glancing at the script on the desk as he sat down in the chair. Meet Mel Merdock.

“You’re making headlines, Ozzie. It’s starting all over again. I even saw that commercial on television. Your arrest gave them an excuse to play it again. They like playing it. They like watching a guy go down. It pays for their expensive clothing. New jewelry and fast cars. It buys the good life, Ozzie. It must be tough. Look at this place. It’s a dump. You ever thought about suicide?”

Olson’s body shuddered. Raymond waved his gun at the bottle of whisky.

“Why not have a drink,” Raymond said.

Olson’s eyes moved to the bottle. “I quit drinking,” he said.

“Have one anyway.”

Raymond slid the bottle over and smiled again. Olson stared at the bottle for a moment, then finally picked it up. He’d begun to sweat, his hands quivering as he removed the cap and took a small sip.

“Have another,” Raymond said.

The bottle flew past Raymond’s head and smashed against the cinder block wall. Olson bolted for the door, trying to escape.

Raymond sprung from the chair. He yanked him back into the room and they fell onto the couch. He could see the terror in his eyes as he straddled him. Olson yelped, his hands seizing the end of the gun and struggling to push it away from his face. The muzzle was zigzagging across his cheek. Once Raymond found Olson’s mouth, he jammed the barrel in, drove him back and screamed.

Olson was crying now, jerking his fat head back and forth wildly. He was choking on the gun, clawing at it, trying to pull the thing out. But Raymond kept his eyes on Olson’s sweaty fingers. They were leaving prints. They were moving down the barrel slowly, feeling their way toward the handle. It was a big gun, a .45 picked up at a gun show and freshly oiled. When Olson’s finger slipped through the trigger guard, Raymond pulled it back and let go.

The noise was horrendous. A big booming sound that shook the whole room.

Olson’s body thrust back and the top of his head sprayed against the wall. A moment passed. Then another as the shock waves finally dissipated. Raymond climbed off the body, eying the mess as he struggled to catch his breath.

The issues in Olson’s life were finally over. He would never have to worry about headlines again. Never be embarrassed. The man had committed suicide and his story would remain alive on TV. Olson was still a loser, but at least he wouldn’t have to watch it. He was at peace now.

Chapter 47

A camera flashed, lighting up Olson’s corpse as it slept on the couch with its eyes open and its brains blown out. A photographer with a beer gut and long sideburns rattled off shots from every angle. Crime scene techs walked in and out of the room, one with a Hoover vacuum cleaner. When the photographer had all the pictures he needed, Sandy moved in with her assistant from the coroner’s office, prying the gun out of Olson’s hand and emptying his pockets.

Randolph pushed Frank into the darkroom and Grimes closed the door. Both detectives were eyeing him nervously, skeptically—the case radioactive now.

“So you’re saying it’s your client,” Randolph said in a voice that wouldn’t carry through the door. “Mel Merdock, Frank. A candidate with all the money in the world. He or his wife or brother hired someone to commit murder, not once or twice, but four times just so no one would find out that he’s doing some girl?”

Hearing it spoken out loud sounded convoluted even to Frank. He nodded without confidence. A cell phone rang. As Grimes retrieved the phone from his pocket and flipped it open, Randolph glared at his partner with new concern.

“If it’s the U.S. Attorney, keep your mouth shut. No sources. No names. Keep to the facts.”

Grimes nodded. Then someone knocked on the door and pulled it open. It was Sandy, holding Olson’s wallet. Randolph checked his latex gloves and she passed it over. When Grimes stepped out to take his call, Randolph followed him through the door leaving Frank behind.

Frank caught up with the detective as he climbed the steps and reached the street. But he could see Randolph still shaking his head, still mulling it over and filled with doubt.

“The motive usually matches the crime, Frank. Who’s gonna kill four people to cover up that he got laid?” Randolph gave him a look and whistled. “Shit,” he said. “If everybody did that, we’d all be dead.”

Randolph’s car was parked by the main entrance to the building. Linda sat on the steps waiting for them. Wrapped in a blanket, she looked pale and frightened and Frank wished that she hadn’t been with him when he found Olson’s corpse. He turned back to Randolph, watching him open Olson’s wallet and spread the contents out on the hood. When the detective came to Olson’s license, he wrinkled his brow at Frank and whistled again.

“George Washington,” the detective said. “Thomas Jefferson, FDR, Eisenhower, JFK, LBJ—and what about Clinton, Gingrich and everybody else?”

“What are you trying to say?”

“You tell me,” Randolph said. “If it had come out that Merdock was having an affair, could he have still won the election?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Randolph shot back. “Haven’t you been watching TV? Lou Kay’s sinking like a stone. He’s a wife beater now.”

Frank met Linda’s eyes. Then Grimes arrived with a crime scene tech and pointed to the hood of the car. For some reason, the tech began setting up his print case beside Randolph. Randolph watched him for a moment, then glanced at Olson’s license and handed it to Grimes.

“The address doesn’t match here or his wife’s place,” he said.

Grimes looked it over. “The building super says Olson had a trailer out in the woods. And the U.S. Attorney’s in. He’s going out to the Merdocks in person and on his own.”

Frank picked up on Grimes’s tone and obvious dig.

“The U.S. Attorney likes headlines,” Randolph said, turning back to Grimes. “Let’s get a head start on him and send a crew out to this trailer.”

“He wants us to notify Olson’s wife,” Grimes said.

Randolph nodded. “After we get their prints.”

“Who’s prints?” Frank asked.

“Yours,” Randolph said. “It’ll save us time if we can weed you out and work with what’s left.”

“But we didn’t touch anything,” Linda said in protest.

“That’s even better,” Randolph said, turning to the print tech. “Now get it done. They’re coming with us.”

The man grabbed Frank’s hand, pressing his fingers into the ink pad and blotting them on paper. When Frank looked back at Linda, he saw the worry on her face and felt a sudden chill. The police were taking his fingerprints. The coroners were muscling Olson’s body up the steps and struggling to get the gurney into their van. It was late. Maybe too late. And he wondered if he might not be standing in Olson’s shadow.

Chapter 48

Frank and Linda were waiting in the backseat while Randolph and Grimes notified Olson’s wife that her husband was dead. It was quiet, just the sound of the river in the background, the occasional bite of a police radio from the squad car parked further down the gravel driveway. Grimes had suggested that a black-and-white be dispatched to watch Olson’s house until they could figure out what had actually happened.

Frank knew when they told her.

He heard her cry out, heard her agony in the night and knew that he was responsible regardless of the way things played out. He could feel Linda’s eyes on him in the darkness and sensed that she was crying. He wondered whether Olson’s kids were asleep, or whether they might be listening from the top of the stairs the way kids do. The sound of their mother weeping could still be heard, even from the backseat of Randolph’s car. It was a sound that cut to the bone, and he hoped that Olson’s kids were asleep and dreaming.

Frank leaned his head against the seat, staring into the darkness beyond the house at the river beyond. He felt like a fish twisting in an ocean of sand. He couldn’t move, couldn’t get enough air.

Randolph and Grimes climbed in without saying anything. It seemed odd, but Grimes was behind the wheel now. Once they were out the drive, Randolph finally spoke, his voice low and raspy.

“Olson called his wife early this afternoon. He asked if he could see her tomorrow and said that he had big news.”

Frank remained quiet.

“She didn’t think that he sounded depressed,” Randolph went on. “Not enough to commit suicide anyway. She said that he was excited about something.”

“Excited about what?” Frank asked.

Randolph shrugged. “She was upset. She didn’t take the news very well.”

The car became quiet again. Randolph settled into the passenger seat, and Grimes brought the car up to speed. As Frank watched Olson’s house disappear into the night, he felt Linda take his hand, give it a gentle squeeze, and then let go.

It took half an hour to reach Olson’s trailer, the last ten minutes spent on gravel and dirt roads. They were in the deep woods, well beyond the lights of Washington. It was dark, the air clear, the stars jumping out of the sky for anyone who wanted to look up and grab them with their eyes.

Turning into the drive, they rode up the dirt road through a grove of pine trees. The trailer looked run-down, the windows dark as it sat beside a graveyard from the Revolution. Cops and detectives greeted them with flashlights as a crew set up a generator that would provide electrical power to the work lights being rigged on stands.

A detective half Randolph’s age waited for them as they got out of the car. Trudging through the field grass, Frank could feel Linda’s eyes still on him but remained quiet. That feeling was back. That shadow.

“Why are the lights out?” Randolph asked.

The young detective picked up his step, trying to keep up with him. “Looks like he was late on some bills.”

Randolph grimaced. They reached the trailer, opened the screen door and stepped inside. The trailer was small, the kind meant to be dragged behind a car. It looked to Frank as if there were only two rooms. The front housed a cheap table and chairs with a galley kitchen. The room in back he guessed Olson slept in. But like his office, the trailer was a pigsty—maybe even more so.

Grimes moved to the back room, hitting it with his flashlight and looking troubled.

“Olson wasn’t late,” he said. “We were. Somebody’s already been here.”

He turned to Randolph, his expression hard.

“Give me your cell phone,” Randolph said.

Grimes pulled the phone out and handed it over. Randolph opened it, turning to Frank and Linda.

“You two better wait outside,” he said.

Frank pushed the screen door open and walked out. The gasoline generator started, filling the quiet night air with a rattling noise that sounded as annoying as a neighbor mowing their lawn every Wednesday at dinner time. Then the bank of lights fired up, their beams casting a white, unnatural light onto the trailer. Everything about the place looked dead and buried.

Frank leaned against Randolph’s car and lit a cigarette, trying to think things through as he turned toward the graveyard. They were no longer living in a shadowy world of best guesses. It was Merdock. Juliana. But Randolph had planted a seed. Somehow the motive had become less clear.

“Are you having an affair with her?”

Frank looked up and saw Linda appraising him. He hadn’t noticed that she was standing behind him.

“With who?” he asked.

“Juliana Merdock.”

At first he was confused by the question. As it sank in, he shook his head without saying anything.

“Then why is she always around?”

“It’s been a tough race,” he whispered. “A real tough race. Have we reached the point where a candidate would kill to win?”

Linda shuddered.

“I’m just thinking out loud,” he said. “But what kind of a person would commit murder to cover up something that isn’t even a crime? Sex isn’t a crime yet, is it?”

“You’ve gotta drop Merdock, hold a press conference, and get out.”

“And say what, Linda? My clients murdered four people. We disagree on the fundamental issues in this race, so I’ve decided to bow out?”

“You’ve gotta get out.”

“It’s too late and you know it,” he said. “If I quit, Merdock wins. Even if I coast he wins. Either way, Mel Merdock ends up a senator and I’m the one who got him there.”

She took a step closer. “What are you gonna do?”

He didn’t say anything, holding her gaze. A moment passed. It looked like she was putting it together.

“Are you out of your mind?” she said finally.

Frank dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. “I don’t think so.”

She took his arm. Her worry looked more like terror now.

“Frank, you can’t sabotage this race.”

“Why not?”

“Because these people are dangerous. They’re insane. Crazy.”

“If I’m careful, they’ll never find out. They’ll never even know it’s happening.”

“How are you gonna keep it a secret? What if they do find out?”

Frank shook his head. “I don’t see a lot of choices here, Linda.”

“But there isn’t enough time. Look what they’ve done.”

Headlights were turning into the drive, three cars making a fast approach through the grove of pine trees. Randolph stepped out of the trailer, ignoring the cars and handing Grimes the cell phone. The detective looked angry and didn’t stop until he was in Frank’s face, spitting his words out over the numbing drone of the generator.

“What’s RAVE?” he asked.

The question was out of left field. It threw Frank off and he froze.

Randolph met his eyes. “I just spoke with Olson’s wife. That’s what he was all jacked up about. She remembers now. Something called RAVE.”

Frank glanced back at Linda. RAVE was the special interest group that had forced its way into the Merdock/Kay race. They had seen RAVE’s TV spot together a few weeks ago and laughed at it.

Randolph moved even closer. “And your client says he was at a fund-raiser all night. He’s got an alibi.”

“He’s lying,” Frank said. “Merdock’s using his own cash. He’s never held a fund-raiser.”

“The man’s running for the U.S. Senate,” Randolph shouted in frustration. “You’re asking me to interfere in an election. We need a better motive than some rich guy killing four people for a roll of sex shots, Frank.”

Randolph hit the hood of his car with a closed fist. Everyone flinched except Frank, who stood motionless. He could see the dent in the hood as Randolph stepped away and turned to the cars pulling to a stop beneath the trees. Ten men in suits jumped out, marching toward them through the glare of headlights. Frank recognized the U.S. Attorney leading the way. He was tall, stern-looking, about fifty and wearing a long overcoat. When Frank turned, he noticed Randolph grinding his teeth. Grimes stood beside his partner like a bodyguard ready to take a head shot.

“Looks like the U.S. Attorney’s met the Merdocks,” Grimes whispered under his breath.

The U.S. Attorney finally reached them, his hooded eyes lingering on Frank. Then a nondescript man in a suit pointed out Randolph. The U.S. Attorney flashed a bogus smile and offered his hand. If the smell of ether had a face, this was it.

“My name is Randal Wright, Lieutenant. What are these people doing at my crime scene? Give them a ride home. We’ll take it from here.”

Randolph didn’t say anything. Frank checked his pocket for his cigarettes. When he found the pack empty, he crumpled it up.

Chapter 49

Raymond hid in the tall field grass overlooking Olson’s trailer a hundred yards off. He had Olson’s night-vision goggles strapped to his head and had seen the cavalry arrive. Now Frank and Linda were getting into a car with those two detectives and driving off. The U.S. Attorney was in charge, and no one looked very pleased.

Raymond yawned. It had been a long night and he wanted to get back to the Iwo Jima and take his vitamin C. Maybe a couple of aspirin before he got some sleep. His wrists ached. When the gun went off in Olson’s mouth, he hadn’t quite released his grip and the .45 kicked back on him. If the pain got any worse, he might need to see a doctor.

He stood up, brushing himself off in the darkness. As he walked over to his car, it occurred to him that he might be a candidate for Lyme disease. He’d been lying in the grass for the better part of an hour and seen deer freely roaming the field in spite of his presence. A hot shower and a body check for tick bites was the smart way to go. He couldn’t afford the down time.

Raymond listened to the generator that the police were using and guessed that the sound reached a mile or so into the woods. He started his car and pulled forward slowly, cresting the hill until he spotted the break in the barbed-wire fence on the other side. Navigating in the darkness, he was amazed by how well Olson’s night-vision goggles worked. It was a negative world that he saw through the windshield with everything flowing in reverse. The sky was jet-black, the field grass a throbbing electric white. Still, the night was as bright as daylight. As he passed through the fence and pulled onto the dirt road, he wondered how long he could make it last. How close to the city he could get before it became necessary to switch on his headlights.

The dirt road had taken a beating with the last rain. Raymond could see the deep gully on the left with perfect clarity. When he reached a two-lane road that was paved, he noticed the lights from an approaching car and waited until they passed.

It was them. The two detectives with Frank and his partner sitting in the backseat.

Raymond could see them clearly and a certain thrill coursed through his veins as he realized that he hadn’t been spotted in the darkness. He pulled onto the road, closing the distance between them as fast as he could. When he was close enough to read their license plate, he backed off a car length or two, gliding in their wake and cackling with the windows closed.

Chapter 50

They were in the media room, searching through stacks of video cassettes for that idiotic RAVE spot at 3:00 a.m. Linda found it in a pile on the floor and pushed the tape into the VCR. Frank grabbed the remote and hit REWIND.

Olson was dead. And Randolph and Grimes had been undercut by the U.S. Attorney, a man with political ambition who chased headlines. Frank guessed that the kind of headlines the U.S. Attorney sought didn’t include interfering with an election. Either he’d take the easy way out and sign off on Olson’s death as a suicide. Or he’d follow the trail to Frank’s client moving slower than Randolph and Grimes had. Without evidence implicating Merdock directly to the murders, the investigation would take into account Merdock’s sizable fortune and his ability to defend himself with a high-paid staff of attorneys. As a result, Frank thought it safe to assume that the investigation would be put off until after the election and that he’d be on his own for a while. Even worse, once Merdock won the election, and Frank knew with certainty that he would, his client would be protected by the power of his office. Mel Merdock would be a United States Senator. Getting to him after election day would be even more difficult than it was now.

Linda sat down at the table. The VCR clicked and Frank scanned through the head of the tape ignoring the snow on the TV screen. Before his murder, Olson had told his wife that he was excited about something in politics called RAVE. Frank remembered reading in The Post that Olson had been arrested at the airport after making a short trip to Atlanta. RAVE had offices in Washington and Atlanta.

The spot faded up. Frank remembered the ad and grimaced. That ridiculous TV wife was making dinner at the stove in a dress and jewelry while her asinine TV husband read the newspaper and ignored their child. The crucifix was placed on the wall behind them, screen right so that it couldn’t be missed.

“I was talking to Jane today,” the wife was saying, “and I forgot why we’re not voting for Lou Kay.”

The husband lowered his paper and looked at his wife as if she was ignorant. “We’re not voting for Lou Kay because he’s bad, honey.”

“But why is he bad?”

The husband chuckled. “Lou Kay doesn’t share our values.”

“He doesn’t share our values,” she repeated girlishly.

“You tell Jane that’s all she needs to know. I’ll talk to Dick on Sunday.”

The wife nodded, smiling like an obedient dog. Then the voice-over faded up as church bells rang.

“Paid for by the Committee for the Restoration of American Values and Ethics,” the announcer said.

Frank picked up the remote and hit STOP, thinking it over.

“If you look at it one way, it’s crazy,” Linda said. “If you look at it another...”

“They’ve reversed the issues,” he said. “If you watch TV the way most people do, you’ll think Merdock stands for what Lou Kay does.”

He hadn’t noticed it before and it shook him up. The spot was more than just a twisted vision of the past. The message had been simplified to the point of poetry and worked like a stealth bomber. He had no doubt that it was only running in the most conservative districts of Virginia. The spot never brought up issues or details. It didn’t need to, nor would it have wanted to. Instead it got right to the heart of what every political ad tries to do with only thirty seconds; Lou Kay is the bad guy, it said, and Mel Merdock is good. The warped setting, along with the actors and that crucifix in the background, carried the entire payload. It was a work of near genius, designed to mislead its audience. However misguided, Frank realized that it was well done.

He started pacing. Linda had seen it, too.

“Do you really think the Merdocks are capable of this kind of sophistication?” she asked.

“No. They don’t have the experience. We’ve missed something.”

“Missed what?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. Let’s get out of here.”

He started for the door, then turned back. He could see it in her face, the sight of Olson’s dead body still haunting her.

“Jason’s in L.A.” she said in a quiet voice. “I’m not sure I can be alone tonight.”

*          *          *

It was a dead sleep, entirely dreamless. The kind of sleep that seems too short and provides no answers. No rest. Frank woke up with his eyes fixed on the clock radio. Only fifteen minutes had passed since the last time he checked. He rolled over on his back. Sleep wasn’t going to happen tonight.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Olson. The man had stumbled onto something about RAVE that he called exciting. That was the word his wife had used. It had even been worth the price of a plane ticket, and from what Frank had seen, Olson didn’t have much money to spare.

He reached for the bottle of spring water beside the telephone, his eyes drifting out the window at the rain. Trash bags were stacked along the sidewalks and he could see a stray dog sniffing the pile before his house. After a few moments, the dog ripped through the bag on top, pulling discarded food out and eating it in quick bites. When the light from a passing car glanced the sidewalk, Frank noticed the animal’s tail and realized that he’d been watching a rat.

He shook it off, trying not to think about what was happening to the city. The changes occurred in slow increments, masking the decline for many of the city’s inhabitants. But Frank’s clients often remarked about it after winning an election and facing the prospect of moving here. They found the water supply undrinkable, trash pickup reduced to once a month, then adjusted to once every two weeks, potholes the size of shallow graves, crime out of control, the public schools failing, housing values falling by almost half in the last six years. If you removed the monuments and government buildings, what remained was a third world city.

The bedroom door opened and Buddha hopped on the bed, wagging his tail and circling until he found a place to lie down. Frank turned to the door and saw Linda standing in the hall in a T-shirt and boxer shorts.

“You asleep?” she whispered.

“Uh-uh.”

A moment passed. It looked like she was thinking something over.

“Are you gonna say anything to the police about RAVE?” she asked finally.

“I don’t know.”

“Why do you think they took our fingerprints, Frank? The real reason, I mean.”

“I don’t know that either.”

She stepped into the room, crossing to the window and staring out at the rain. He sat up, trying to ignore her bare legs and feet, her tangled hair. He noticed her eyes, tossing and turning. Something was eating at her just below the surface.

“I left you because you changed,” she said.

“We’ve been through this before, Linda.”

She nodded. “When Olson walked out of that porno theater, you knew that he was really looking for his niece. You lied and said you didn’t. You called it an accident. You knew that the press would play the spot and destroy him for you. All you had to do was sit back and watch.”

“Olson was running a dirty race,” he said. “He’d tagged Helen as a baby killer. You remember what his hit pieces looked like.”

“You were the best. You didn’t need to make that spot. You could’ve found another way.”

He looked at her, but didn’t say anything.

“Now it’s happening with Merdock,” she said, her eyes still turned inward. “And even though I’m afraid, I want you to cross the line again. I want you to destroy him, Frank. It’s confusing.”

“I know it is,” he whispered.

She turned from the window, gazing at him for in silence.

“It’s almost morning,” he said. “Try and get some sleep.”

Chapter 51

Frank hung up the phone. Mario didn’t like the idea, but finally agreed to meet him outside RAVE’s office at 9:00 p.m. Until then, Frank would concentrate on Merdock’s election to the Senate. He thought that he could slow the campaign down, but wasn’t sure he had enough time to kill it. Merdock had momentum—his campaign rolling down the runway like a loaded 747 that had just hit airspeed.

Tracy walked in, sitting before his desk and glancing at the list on her notepad.

“The talk radio campaign is shut down,” she said. “We’ve got new callers starting here tomorrow after you prep Merdock for the debate. The callers are friends. People I trust.”

“Remember what they need to say. They were considering Merdock, but now they’re voting for Lou Kay.”

Frank sat back in his chair, watching her write it down.

“You okay with this?” he asked.

She nodded. “Harry and Tom know something’s up.”

Frank looked through the glass at his interns working at their desks in the war room. It was a small office. It couldn’t be helped.

“What about the TV buy?” he asked.

“The stations called. They want to know why your cutting back Merdock’s spots with only five days to go.”

“What did you tell them?”

“That it was a slam dunk. Pick up a newspaper and look at the polls.”

It was the right answer. The phone rang. When Tracy picked up, she tapped the desk with her pen and gave Frank an anxious look.

“He’s still out of the office, Mrs. Merdock. Is there a message?”

Juliana had been trying to reach him all morning. Each time she had told Tracy it was urgent. Frank guessed that the U.S. Attorney’s visit to their house last night had come as an unwelcome surprise and that they were nervous about it. Frank stopped listening. When he looked away from Tracy, he saw Linda waving at him from her office on the other side of the war room.

“I’ll make sure he gets it,” Tracy said, hanging up.

Frank got out of his chair, taking the message from Tracy and crumpling it up as they walked out. When he entered Linda’s office, he found her at the computer paging through newspaper articles on the Internet. She turned as he closed the door.

“Did you see the overnight poll?”

“Lou Kay’s free-falling,” he said.

“If they’ve been smeared, why aren’t they fighting back?”

Frank took the chair beside her and sat down, wondering the same thing. The hit on Lou Kay as a wife beater was out there, yet Stewart Brown hadn’t responded with anything more than verbal denials. Given Brown’s knack for sleaze, Frank had been waiting for something decisive. He’d been hoping for it. Counting on it.

“They need proof,” he said. “And I’ve been thinking it over. If it comes out as a spot, they’ll look defensive. It needs to break in the news so it won’t seem biased. If it were me, I’d save it for the debate tomorrow night. Now what have you got?”

“Eight years ago, Juliana was all over the society pages in Fort Worth.”

Linda clicked a window open on her monitor. An article from a Fort Worth newspaper’s archives appeared on the screen. Frank read the headline MERDOCK SR. ATTENDS CHARITY BALL WITH JULIANA DODSON. A black-and-white photo was attached. When Linda enlarged it, Frank moved in for a closer look and saw Juliana getting out of a limousine with a big smile on her face and Mel Merdock, Sr. on her arm. The old man was in his eighties and wore a black cowboy hat. Frank noticed someone behind them opening a walker and realized that it was their bodyguard. He looked young, in his thirties, his short cropped hair either blond or prematurely turning gray.

“Juliana ran for congress right out of college,” Linda said. “A grassroots campaign. She couldn’t raise any money and didn’t get past the primary.”

Linda clicked the print icon on the screen, then reached behind her as the printer fired up. Frank looked back at Juliana on the monitor, smiling in disbelief at what it implied.

“She was doing Merdock’s father?” he said.

Linda rolled her eyes, handing him the hard copy. “They spent a lot of time together. The old man died in bed, Frank. Three weeks later, she ran off to Vegas and married Mel. I guess she learned that money counts.”

Frank glanced at the photo on the hard copy and shook his head at the thought of Juliana fucking the old man. If they won the election, she’d make a big splash on the Hill.

“What about RAVE?” Linda asked.

He folded the article, slipping it into his jacket pocket.

“Tonight,” he said.

Chapter 52

D.C. Diner was on the Hill, too close to the Capitol to be called a joint. The booths were made of solid cherry, not Formica, the lighting as subdued as the sound. The diner did a big lunch business because of the way it had been engineered. The way it managed sound. As Woody often liked to point out, the booths were constructed in such a way that it was impossible to eavesdrop on a conversation at the next table. Secrets could be discussed openly. A perfect place for the Washington crowd.

Tonight, like most nights, the diner was empty. Frank sat at a booth facing the windows and eating a burger and fries with a cup of hot black coffee. He checked his watch. Mario had confirmed their meeting and he still had almost an hour.

He looked out the window and noticed a Lincoln pull to a stop at the curb. Two men were getting out. When the driver walked around the car, he realized that it was Jake Merdock. Frank’s eyes moved to the second man as he stepped beneath a street light. Frank wasn’t sure why it surprised him, but it did. It was the man with spiked gray hair.

They entered the diner and split up. Jake headed for Frank’s booth. The killer moved to the counter, swiveling the stool around so that he could watch. He wore a confident smile, almost cocky, and carried himself with an understated agility. Frank was careful not to hold the glance as the man stared back at him because he didn’t think he could hide the recognition on his face. He had a picture of the killer in his jacket pocket. Linda had printed it off the Internet. The man had been Mel Merdock Sr.’s bodyguard.

Jake slid into the booth. “You eat here a lot, Frank?”

He shrugged. “Who’s your friend?”

“Just a friend,” Jake said flatly.

A middle-aged waitress working alone called out from the counter. “Coffee, mister?”

Jake nodded. As she walked over with the pot, Frank could tell that she sensed trouble. She poured the coffee without her usual banter and returned to the counter, keeping watch by the phone. When Frank turned back, Jake took a sip and set the cup down.

“Too bad what Olson did to himself, huh, Frank?”

Frank knew that he was looking for a reaction, but didn’t give him one. “What do you want, Jake?”

“The U.S. Attorney stopped by the house last night asking a lot of questions.”

“You held a fund-raiser, right?”

Jake stared at him for a moment before nodding slowly.

“Then save your worry for the debate,” Frank said.

“We’re in a situation, aren’t we?”

“And what’s that?”

“You need us, and we need you.” Jake picked up his spoon, adding sugar and stirring it through his coffee in slow waves. “I know that you’ve been ducking our calls. We like you, Frank. We’re concerned about you. And we’re paying you a lot of money.”

Frank pushed his plate aside. Jake set the spoon down and lowered his voice.

“First your partner dies, and now Olson. You found the body, right? You were there. Maybe it’s a suicide, but maybe not. Who knows what it will add up to? I guess it’s not like a puzzle. The pieces don’t fit just one way. It must be distracting. Hard to get any work done when you’re under so much pressure.”

“I’m used to it,” Frank said.

He understood that Jake was speaking in code. He glanced at the gray haired man sipping coffee at the counter. Even though his face was turned, Frank caught the smile, the smirk. They thought they had him. They thought they owned him.

“You’re used to it,” Jake repeated. “That’s exactly what I told the U.S. Attorney. He seems like a good guy, doesn’t he? A real straight-shooter. When he asked me about your character, I said that you’re the best there is. You’re the best, right, Frank? You’re a big shot. You really know how to handle pressure.”

Frank met his eyes, then glanced at the wall clock. He’d had enough.

“I’m late,” he said. “I’ve gotta go.”

Frank picked up the check and walked to the register. He could feel their eyes on him and heard them starting for the door. When he handed the waitress a twenty-dollar bill and reached into his pocket for change, the man with spiked gray hair bumped into him. A quarter fell and rolled across the floor.

“Sorry,” the man said.

Frank knew that it had been intentional and watched the man pick up the coin. As he placed it in Frank’s hand, his eyes rose and met Frank’s in a dead stare. The man had murdered Woody and Olson, and what about those two kids? Alan Ingrams had been stabbed over forty times. Had Frank not been careful, he would have faltered. Instead, he held the glance until the killer smiled and walked out, getting into the Lincoln with Jake.

“Nice-looking fellas,” the waitress said when they were alone.

Frank nodded, passing her the quarter.

“Keep it,” she said like it was dirty money. “Any nicer and I would’ve called nine-one-one.”

She made his change and handed it over. Frank walked out, heading down the sidewalk to the rental car. As he passed the Lincoln, the man with spiked gray hair waved at him from the passenger seat. Frank watched them drive off, thinking it over. It wasn’t fear pulling at his chest. In the face of blackness, all he could feel was rage.

He grit his teeth, unlocking the car and yanking the door open. Once he got the engine running, he pulled out his cell phone and punched in Mario’s number. The traffic looked heavier than usual for this time of night. He thought that he might be five to ten minutes late.

Chapter 53

It was a run-down building in a section of the city that didn’t benefit from a government cash fix. They were on the second floor at the end of the hall. The print on the pebbled-glass door read RAVE, THE COMMITTEE FOR THE RESTORATION OF AMERICAN VALUES AND ETHICS. As Mario knelt down to examine the lock, Frank looked at the open toolbox on the floor and what his friend was wearing. Mario had dressed for the part. He was playing the role of a locksmith on a routine after-hours business call.

“Can’t you just pick it?” Frank asked. “And what’s with the overalls?”

Mario reached for the toolbox, in a foul mood. “I don’t know how to pick a lock, Frank. And I really don’t feel like going to jail. Now give me some room.”

Frank stepped back. Then Mario jammed a screwdriver into the door hinge and started banging it with a hammer. The noise was horrific. Frank checked the hall. When he turned back, Mario had popped the pins and was lifting the entire door away.

“Jesus, Mario...”

But they were in.

Frank stepped over the mail on the floor that had been pushed through the door slot, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. It was a single room, stripped of any furniture. A telephone and answering machine had been set on the windowsill. An empty cardboard box that once contained a case of Popov vodka was being used for trash.

“What did you expect to find?” Mario asked in a nervous voice.

“Just what we’re seeing. Check the answering machine.”

As Mario moved to the far side of the room, Frank picked up the mail and began sifting through it in the light from the hall. Olson’s trip to Atlanta crossed his mind. Frank had no doubt that RAVE’s office in the South was nothing but an empty room as well.

“No messages,” Mario said, bolting for the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

“What about theirs?”

Mario stopped and turned around, heading back to the windowsill as if under protest. When he flipped the answering machine open and found the greeting message button, a man’s voice began reading the announcement:

This is RAVE, the Committee for the Restoration of American Values and Ethics, your watchdog on Capitol Hill. Contributions may be sent to six-one-six Jefferson Drive, Washington, D.C. Two-zero-zero-zero-seven. Thanks for your support.

“You recognize the voice?” Mario asked.

Frank shook his head, tossing junk mail onto the floor until he spotted a windowed envelope in what remained of the pile. It looked like a check and he opened it. His heart skipped a beat. The check was made out to Lou Kay’s ex-wife.

“What is it?” Mario asked.

“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars made out to Sylvia Kay.”

“I knew she was lying,” Mario said excitedly. “If Lou Kay had beaten her, it would’ve come up. Who’s paying her off?”

Frank held the check to the light. “There isn’t a name printed at the top. All we’ve got is the account number.”

Frank looked at his watch. It was only ten. With election day less than a week out, Tracy wouldn’t be leaving the office for another hour or two. He flipped his cell phone open and entered the number. As he waited for her to pick up, he wrote the account number the check was drawn from on the envelope.

Mario moved closer, eyeing the check carefully. “It’s been laundered by a third party, Frank. Probably sent here for hand delivery. Sylvia Kay ruined her ex-husband, but the election’s not here yet. It’s not a done deal until he loses. I’ll bet strings are attached to this money. Some sort of contract.”

Frank raised his hand as Tracy finally answered the call.

“It’s me,” he said into the phone. “I need Merdock’s bank account number. The one in Dallas he’s wiring the TV buy from.”

He waited a moment. She was already at the computer and he could hear her punching up the account. As she read Merdock’s bank account number to him, he wrote it down on the envelope.

“I got it,” he said to her. “Thanks.”

Frank closed his phone and pocketed the check, handing the envelope with both account numbers to Mario. “See if you can find a withdraw from Merdock’s bank that covers this check. Stewart Brown and Lou Kay need proof that they were smeared. We’re gonna give it to them.”

“What are you gonna do with the check?”

“Make a photocopy and send it back,” Frank said. “You need to call Eddie. I want him watching this place. I want to know who picks up the check. Better tell him to bring a camera.”

“He’s scared shitless, Frank. He’s hiding out.”

The anxiousness was back in Mario’s voice and he looked terrified. Frank started for the door, trying to ignore it.

“He can do it from his car, Mario. Just make sure he brings a camera.”

Chapter 54

The drive home only took twenty minutes. Frank heard thunder in the distance and saw an occasional flash of lighting. On the radio they were calling for more rain. Frank wouldn’t have cared if it snowed, wondering if you could overdose on adrenalin. RAVE had been responsible for the dirty tricks against Lou Kay’s campaign. He had the proof in his pocket—the check to Sylvia Kay for $250,000. But RAVE was also an independent expenditure, a special interest group. Depending on how Mario made out, if they could connect the dots to Merdock, then Merdock had broken the law and Lou Kay could drop the bomb at the debate tomorrow night in front of the TV cameras.

It was a silver bullet, just as Frank had told Juliana.

Mel Merdock would be forever branded as the greasy carpetbagger who would do anything to win. The check was big enough, the deceit rich enough, that the press would run with the story. Mel Merdock paid Lou Kay’s ex-wife a quarter million dollars to lie and then destroyed his innocent daughter’s life in a scandal at school. Merdock’s campaign would be finished, his name, poisoned. The cops would no longer have to worry about interfering in an election. The U.S. Attorney could work the murder investigation out in the open the moment the story broke.

Frank pulled into the drive, spotting them on the porch instantly. Randolph sat on the steps smoking a cigarette. Grimes was on the porch swing, gliding back and forth. From the expressions on their faces, it looked as if they knew that he’d just committed a burglary. But that was impossible. Mario had rehung the door and they’d made it out of the building without being seen.

“Where you been?” Randolph asked.

Frank grabbed his briefcase and got out of the car, eyeing them carefully. “I thought you guys got kicked off the case,” he said.

Randolph shrugged. “You know as well as we do D.C. doesn’t elect a district attorney, Frank. The U.S. Attorney is appointed by the president.” Randolph paused a moment to look at his cigarette before taking another drag. “Did I tell you that the U.S. Attorney’s building a new home on the Chesapeake?”

“Are you saying there’s a problem?”

Grimes laughed from the porch swing. “Yeah, there’s a problem. He’s a politician. He goes goo-goo for cash.”

Randolph let it settle in a moment, looking past Frank to the street. “The U.S. Attorney didn’t come from money and he didn’t marry it. I couldn’t prove it. But it sure looks like he spends more than he makes.”

The rain started. A light drizzle. Frank climbed the steps, resting his briefcase on the table and leaning against the porch rail.

“Your fingerprints were found in Olson’s office,” Randolph said in a quieter voice. “You didn’t touch things here and there. You touched everything, Frank. Like maybe you were looking for something.”

“I was there last week,” he said slowly.

Randolph nodded. “The building super says the two of you talked. He says that you were impersonating a police officer. You see where we’re heading, right?”

A long moment passed. Dark and heavy. Frank lowered his eyes, waiting for the detective to spell it out.

“You’re in trouble,” Randolph said. “The U.S. Attorney doesn’t think a candidate for the U.S. Senate would kill four people to cover up an affair. He thinks Olson took those sex shots of your client with the girl. But he wasn’t blackmailing Merdock with them. He thinks that Olson was blackmailing you. That’s why you went over to his place last week. You were searching for the photos. Olson was out to get you. Everybody knows that. The U.S. Attorney thinks that you murdered him, Frank. You were there. You were alone with the body. You thought you could get away with it if you made it look like a suicide.”

“What about Linda?”

“Either she’s in it with you, or you staged the suicide and brought her over as a witness.”

Randolph’s voice trailed off. Frank didn’t say anything. He watched the detective flick his cigarette onto the lawn. Another dead soldier falling on a field of wet grass.

“Why did I kill Woody?” he heard himself whisper.

The porch swing stopped. “He’s not sure yet,” Grimes said. “All the U.S. Attorney knows is that you had the opportunity.”

“The president’s fund-raiser,” Randolph said. “That hour no one could find you. The photographer—Bobby what’s-his-name. He says you guys didn’t speak for more than a couple of minutes. You told us you went into the lobby to make phone calls. Only there’s no record of any calls being made on your cell phone that night. You could’ve done Woody and made it back in plenty of time.”

It hung there as the rain picked up—Jake’s threat unveiled in toto like a black flower at the end of spring. Somehow they had found a way to the U.S. Attorney. From the little Frank knew about the man, he’d thought that he might be weak but hadn’t anticipated him being dirty. The U.S. Attorney had driven out to the Merdocks the night Olson was murdered, looked at their house and had probably seen an opportunity. Now everything they knew about the case had been skewed to fit his theory that Frank was the one. Anything that didn’t fit would be thrown out and ignored, the same way it was done in a political campaign.

They had him. They owned him.

“The president’s fund-raiser,” Randolph repeated. “You had the opportunity, Frank.”

“Linda was with someone,” he said. “I didn’t want to see them together. I was sitting in the lobby. I think I went into the bar.”

“Any truth to the rumor that you and Woody hadn’t been getting along?” Grimes asked.

“We’d been partners for ten years.”

Frank saw the two detectives trade looks like they knew all about being partners for ten years. Then Randolph got to his feet, stretching his legs and taking a step closer.

“The U.S. Attorney’s looking for a motive, Frank. Money, jealousy—things like that. You got a lawyer?”

Frank nodded, then remembered the article from the newspaper in Fort Worth that Linda had given him earlier in the day. Digging it out of his pocket, he unfolded the piece of paper and pointed to the photograph of Juliana and Mel Merdock, Sr. standing in front of their bodyguard.  Grimes got off the porch swing and both detectives gave the man in the photo a close look. Thunder rumbled across the sky just over the house.

“He’s changed,” Frank said. “His hair’s different, but that’s him. I saw him with Jake a couple hours ago.”

Chapter 55

It was safe to say that his life was in crisis. That to sugarcoat what had happened, to live in a fantasy world of false hope would only lead to his own destruction. As Frank pulled into the lot at his office, he saw Merdock’s Lincoln parked before the entrance. Norman sat behind the wheel with the windows closed. Juliana had seen him drive in and was waiting for him to park. Frank guessed that Merdock and Jake were already upstairs. In spite of everything, they had shown up on schedule thinking that Frank would prep Merdock for the debate tonight as if the river had been dry and no water had passed beneath the bridge.

And Frank would. He’d deliver Merdock to Lou Kay and his consultant Stewart Brown. He’d do it with pleasure, even though he had to admit, he was riding on fear.

He got out of the Chevy, glancing at Juliana as he approached her. She was wearing a light-colored blouse with buttons down the front, black stockings with high heeled shoes and a tight black skirt cut to the middle of her thighs. Her face was still and looked like it had aged, the smell of her perfume, both suffocating and toxic.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” she said.

“We’re less than a week out. How’s Mel doing?”

“He’s nervous.”

She was trying to read his face. She was trying to measure him. She stepped closer and took his hand, pressing it into her breast . Every instinct told him to pull away, but he didn’t.

“I like the time we’ve spent together,” she said. “I wish we could do it more often.”

It was a veiled warning, of course. She was referring to the U.S. Attorney without saying it. Play ball, Frank, and we can spend more time together. Play ball, and you might not go to jail.

He switched off his soul and managed a light smile. Walking her to the building, he opened the door for her and followed her up the stairs.

They found Merdock and Jake in the conference room. Easing the tension, Tracy had brought in coffee and a cheese tray that included a variety of breads and sliced fruit. With his clients distracted, Frank set up the camcorder on the far side of the room and wheeled in a monitor on a stand. He was going through the motions. Feeling the strain and ignoring it because he knew that he had to.

Two hours later, they were still at it. Merdock stood in front of the camcorder with Frank and Juliana sitting before the monitor. Jake kept his distance, slouched in a chair at the end of the table and tapping his pen on a scratch pad. Jake seemed quieter than usual, tight like a spring, and every few minutes he’d look through the glass into the war room. Frank followed his gaze, wondering what he was looking at. There were several hundred radio spots spread across the floor, and Tracy and the interns were helping the woman from Fedex get the packages into trash bags and out the door for shipping. Linda was in her office. She had a faraway look in her eyes and had just picked up the phone.

“Are you okay, Frank?” Merdock asked. “You seem a little preoccupied today.”

Frank turned back to the monitor. “Let’s try it again.”

“I’m ready,” Merdock said, adjusting his tie.

Frank gave him the nod. Merdock grabbed the podium and looked off camera. He was stiff and appeared drained.

“I think it’s time,” Merdock said, stumbling over the words. “It’s time to put an end to politics. Politics as usual, I mean. I think everyone would agree. Everyone agrees it’s time to reclaim the values—”

Merdock stopped to check his notes. Frank glanced at Jake and noticed him staring into the war room again.

“You’re the front runner,” Frank said to his client. “You need to look like it, Mel. You need to act like it.”

“Shouldn’t he be talking to the camera?” Juliana asked.

Frank nodded. “He’s looking at himself on the monitor.”

“Why is that woman staring?” Jake blurted out.

Frank gave him a look and then noticed Linda crossing the war room.

“She’s staring,” Jake repeated. “Tell her to stop.”

“Or what?” Frank snapped back at him.

Everyone in the room became quiet. Frank realized his mistake but didn’t care. It had been a long morning of trying to keep his nerves in check, trying to act like nothing had changed when everything had changed. He was tired of looking at Jake’s face. For most of the last hour, he’d been fighting the urge to grab him by the throat and launch him out the window into space.

The door opened. It was Linda, straining to keep her eyes on Frank.

“You’ve got a call,” she said. “Line two. It’s personal.”

She backed out of the room. Frank picked up his file and followed her, closing the door behind them.

“It’s Mario,” she said anxiously. “He’s faxing something.”

“Get Lou Kay on the phone for me.”

Her eyes sharpened and she nodded. Frank crossed the room to the fax machine. When he noticed the Merdocks staring at him through the glass, he picked up the phone and turned his back.

“Where are they?” Mario asked.

“In the conference room,” Frank said. “They’re watching.”

“Can you see your fax machine?”

Frank turned to the fax, picked up the document and started reading.

“It’s a receipt for a wire transfer,” Mario said. “You were right. The dates and amounts match. So do the bank numbers. Two hundred and fifty grand went out of Merdock’s account the same day a fund-raiser on the Hill cut the check to Lou Kay’s ex-wife and sent it to RAVE. The money’s laundered, but there’s no doubt about it, Frank. Merdock paid the bitch to lie.”

“Who’s they, Mario? Who’s RAVE?”

“Someone in politics who knows what they’re doing.”

“What about Eddie?”

“He’s there and he’s got his camera. No one’s shown up yet.”

Linda nodded at him from her desk. He saw the light blinking on the phone.

“Lou Kay’s holding on the other line,” Frank said to Mario.

“If you fax him a copy of that check to his ex-wife and the wire transfer, then Mel Merdock burns down in front of live TV audience tonight. He won’t know what hit him. Good luck, Frank.”

Frank glanced at the conference room. Juliana and Jake were still watching him and seemed tense. Turning back to the phone, he hit the line button and opened his file to the photocopy of the check.

“This is Frank Miles,” he said into the phone. “What’s your fax number, Lou?”

Lou Kay hesitated a moment, then gave him the number.

“Thanks,” Frank said, jotting it down. “I’m sending you something for the debate tonight. It’s what you guys have been looking for. Go stand by your fax machine.”

He hung up without an explanation. As he turned to the fax machine, he saw Linda silently trying to warn him—Tracy and the interns staring at him wide-eyed from their desks.

“Frank,” Juliana said.

She was in the war room, moving in behind his back. Frank fed the papers into the fax machine.

“What are you doing, Frank?”

“I’ll be right with you,” he said.

Frank entered the number and heard the fax connect. As the papers began rolling through the machine face down, he turned and saw Juliana eyeing them.

“Jake was upset,” she said. “Mel’s worried about tonight. Let’s try it again.”

“Mel keeps forgetting that it’s a TV audience. They don’t read. That’s why we’ve always gotta bring it back to crime.”

She nodded, even smiled. The fax machine quieted. Frank returned the papers to his file folder. When the fax printed a record of the transmission that included the words Lou Kay for U.S. Senate in bold letters, he crumpled it up and threw the piece of paper in the trash. He was cool, calm, wiping the beads of sweat from his brow as he walked Juliana into the conference room and closed the door. It was time to get back to work. Time to prep his horse for the debate tonight and hope that he never reached the finish line.

Chapter 56

The Merdocks had left the office after lunch, and the debate wouldn’t be starting for another hour and a half. Frank poured a cup of coffee and took a sip. Through the glass he could see Tracy in the conference room, working with the new talk radio callers who had considered Merdock but were now voting for Lou Kay. Linda was at her desk, talking to someone on the phone. As he walked through the war room and finally reached Woody’s office, he stepped inside and closed the door.

He sat on the couch, looking outside at the Capitol and what seemed like a beautiful evening. Lou Kay and Stewart Brown had everything they needed to bring Merdock down. If they played it right, it would be the only part of the debate to make the late night news. Then the story would mushroom, taking on a life of its own. By tomorrow morning, Lou Kay would no longer be seen as a wife beater. Everyone would know that Mel Merdock was the asshole politician who had paid Lou Kay’s ex-wife a quarter million dollars to face the press and tell a lie.

It wasn’t the same as getting them for murder, but it was a start.

Frank turned away from the window and looked at the pictures his partner had hung on the wall. There was a shot of Woody standing with Danny Garfield outside the congressman’s campaign office in Austin, Texas. Garfield had been a senior member of the House, a very powerful man, but had gotten into trouble for not supporting his party’s line. He was a free thinker who had always said he never voted by consulting his party’s playbook, but listened to his conscience instead. His campaign for reelection had turned into an unexpectedly tight race, but Woody came through for him and they won by a slim margin. Frank remembered Garfield calling to thank Woody from the floor of the House after being sworn in. Frank had never heard of a client doing that before, particularly someone of Garfield’s stature. Even now, Frank couldn’t help but feel impressed.

The door opened. Linda stepped into the room with his jacket.

“You’re gonna be late,” she said in a quiet voice.

“I’m leaving in a few minutes.”

A moment passed, the two of them looking at each other. Then Frank finally got up off the couch and started to get into his jacket.

“Did you talk to Stewart Brown?” she asked.

Frank shook his head. “I couldn’t reach him. I’ll see him at the debate.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “My client’s the rich guy who likes to ruin other people’s lives. It’ll be all over the news tonight. Everything’s great.”

She flashed a worried smile at him. Then she stepped closer, fixing his shirt and straightening his tie. Frank looked at her face. Her lips were parted. Her eyes were bright and warm and she smelled good.

*          *          *

The debate was being held at a campus theater off Route 66 just west of the Beltway. By the time Frank arrived, Merdock and Kay were already standing before the TV cameras fielding questions.

Only half the seats were filled. Frank sat down in the back, checking out the audience in the darkness. He could see Jake holding an empty seat directly before the stage, and looked for Juliana but didn’t see her. When he turned, he spotted Stewart Brown on the far side of the room heading up the aisle toward the lobby. His beady eyes were shifting back and forth on the carpet, his body swelling out of his suit like a balloon ready to pop. Stewart Brown was disgusting. In spite of all that had happened, Frank couldn’t believe that he was handing the dirtbag a win.

He watched Brown pass, then waited a beat before getting up and exiting the theater. When he found the lobby empty, he moved to the glass doors and looked outside, but all he saw was Merdock’s limo idling at the curb with its parking lights on.

Frank turned back to the lobby and noticed the restroom. Pushing open the door, he called out Brown’s name in a low voice but no one answered.

It occurred to him that Brown probably hadn’t left the theater. That the consultant had only been moving to a seat in back for a better view of the audience. Lou Kay wouldn’t be mentioning what Merdock had done to him until the debate was nearly over. It would have more impact that way, and Merdock wouldn’t have the time or opportunity to undo what was about to happen. Brown would want to be behind the audience so that he could gage their reaction and savor it.

Frank left the lobby and started down the hall toward the stage entrance. The theater was on the other side of the wall and he could hear the audience clapping through the exits. He needed to keep walking, keep moving, maybe watch his client take the big fall to nowhere from the wings. He found the steps at the end of the hall and started downstairs. When he turned the corner, the space narrowed and finally came to an end as it met a darker passageway. The walls were unfinished, the stage creaking overhead. He stopped to get his bearings and noticed the set of stairs to the left leading directly to the stage. Above the handrail, a red light was mounted on the wall blinking on and off. Cameras were rolling. He heard the moderator ask Merdock a question, the words so loud and clear that they might have been in the same room.

Frank had another idea where Brown might be when he turned away from the stairs and noticed the dressing rooms. They could talk freely here without the fear of being seen together. He started down the passageway, keeping his eyes on the light leaking from a door at the very end. The door was cracked open. Reaching for the handle, he heard someone talking inside and stopped as he recognized the voice.

It was Juliana Merdock. Frank had picked the wrong dressing room.

“We’re renting this space on election night,” she was saying to someone in the room.

Frank peered through the crack. Juliana was holding a dress against her body and displaying it like a model working a runway. She seemed pleased with herself, in command.

“What do think of my dress?” she asked. “We’re meeting the governor for dinner tonight.”

Frank noticed the TV on the counter beneath the makeup lights. He couldn’t see who she was talking to, but guessed that it was the man with spiked gray hair. Frank could see his shoes, his slacks, a piece of the couch that he was sitting on as he watched the debate on TV. From the tone of Juliana’s voice, it seemed obvious that they’d spent a lot of time together.

Frank turned away from the door, looking for Lou Kay’s dressing room in the darkness.

“You’re not listening, are you?” Juliana was saying. “You’re thinking about what it would be like if I took off my clothes...”

Her words had a certain reach about them.

Frank turned back, watching Juliana unfasten her skirt and let it drop to the floor. Her legs were wrapped in black stockings. She had a lazy smile going as she unbuttoned her blouse and removed it. Frank came up for air. Leftover images of his sex-talk dinner with Juliana-the-innocent appeared before his eyes, mixing with other images from darker places of a young Juliana doing Merdock’s crippled father on silk sheets. It made sense, he realized. The man with gray hair had been Merdock Sr.’s bodyguard. This wasn’t their first time.

Juliana opened her bra, pulling it away from her shoulders and tossing it on the counter. As her breasts bounced out, they looked soft and buoyant. Her husband had just been asked a question and was answering it on TV. Juliana crossed the room, kneeling before the killer and pushing his legs open. She pressed her chest against his thighs and began unfastening his belt. She was looking toward his face, opening his pants and reaching inside.

“You think that I’m impressed with you,” she said in that earthy voice of hers. “That I think you’re brilliant. Devious. Able to keep secrets just the same as I do.”

She was squeezing him, stroking him. Frank saw his hand touch her breasts and begin kneading them. When the man didn’t say anything, Juliana flashed a sleepy smile his way and went down on him.

The veil was gone. Frank eased the door open an inch. When his view cleared, he let go of the door and recoiled.

It wasn’t the killer. It was Stewart Brown.

A moment passed as if Frank had been hit in the face. He staggered down the passageway through the red haze. Stumbling past the blinking light, he lumbered up the steps onto the stage. He was in hell—everything dream-like—and it stung. He looked past the cables and props. Merdock and Kay were standing before their podiums like puppets. He noticed the moderator staring at him and turned away. Off to the side, he found a chair against the wall and managed to sit down.

He needed to get a grip on things, but couldn’t. At some point in the next few minutes Lou Kay was supposed to destroy Mel Merdock. That was the plan. And Frank realized that it wouldn’t be happening now.

“But Mr. Merdock,” the moderator was saying. “What about the character issue and the politics of personal destruction? Haven’t we had enough?”

When Frank looked up, he saw his client smiling at him, then turn to the camera, waxed and polished like a complete fraud. Frank turned away, feeling the rage roll through his body in hard waves.

“Voters have a right to know who they’re voting for,” Merdock said in a smooth voice. “That’s what the character issue is all about. And that’s why I’m calling for an end to politics as usual. I think everyone would agree that it’s time to reclaim the values that made this country great. We can’t do that as long as our streets aren’t safe. Our schools. Crime is the big issue right now and I want to do something about it.”

The election was fixed. Juliana was blowing Stewart Brown.

The audience started clapping. Frank heard it through the haze. Merdock had segued between the moderator’s question and his own talk-points almost seamlessly. While the moderator caught it, no one sitting in the theater seemed to notice.

“I’d appreciate direct answers,” the moderator said. “Mr. Kay, what about the politics of personal destruction?”

Lou Kay looked at Merdock with contempt, then acknowledged the audience and turned to the camera. Kay’s hair was graying at the sides and though he may have been ten years older than Merdock, he didn’t look it. Instead, it was a difference of experience. Kay had a certain wisdom about him. The look of someone who had dug both hands into the work of life and wasn’t afraid of getting scraped or bruised. His face was bright and forceful. And as he stood on stage in a dark suit, a crisp white shirt and red tie, Frank could tell that the man still had the enthusiasm of youth. He wasn’t relaxed or even smooth. His words were heated and straightforward, as direct as an arrow speeding to its mark.

What difference did it make now?

“The character issue,” Kay said. “If we look at it as Mr. Merdock does, then ladies and gentleman, every one of us is a machine. That’s right. If something goes wrong with a machine, we look at it and say it’s broken. Only we aren’t machines. No human being can be reduced to a single moment in their life and said to be broken. People build on the mistakes they’ve made, not their victories. It’s called character. But politics isn’t about character anymore. Politics is about winning, as if it were some kind of sport. Only there aren’t any rules because politics isn’t a sport. And there isn’t an umpire on the field to cry foul every time someone running for office crosses the line. The press likes to write these tactics off by calling it a tough campaign. Nothing could be further from the truth. If politics is about winning at all costs, then Mr. Merdock, I say we’re relinquishing our souls.”

Kay believed in what he was saying and it had rubbed off on the audience. The clapping gave way to cheers, and some people even stood. Frank could see Merdock shifting his weight uncomfortably and fighting the urge to look down at his notes for help.

“But Mr. Kay,” the moderator said. “You’ve been taking some pretty big hits lately. Aren’t the polls indicating that voters agree with Mr. Merdock? Isn’t it a voter’s right to know who they’re voting for?”

The moderator had opened the door to the big moment without even knowing it. This was the point when Lou Kay was supposed to tell the world who Mel Merdock really was. But Kay didn’t have the whole story. He didn’t know who his consultant was.

Frank glanced into the audience and noticed Stewart Brown returning to his seat. His bloated form seemed to bob as he sat down. His pasty skin was flushed and he had a certain glow about him. He looked like he was sweating, and Frank wanted to vomit.

“Mr. Kay,” the moderator said. “Is anything wrong, Mr. Kay?”

Kay was staring at Merdock, appraising the man and not answering the question. The long silence was working its way through the audience. Frank knew that Kay had seen his fax. Mel Merdock had paid his ex-wife a quarter million dollars to call him a wife beater. Now Merdock was standing just three feet away. It had to be eating him up inside. Once he’d read the fax, Frank imagined that Kay would’ve gone directly to his consultant. Brown would’ve looked the papers over and understood exactly what they had. Yet Brown needed to bury the information if he wanted to continue his fuck sessions with Juliana Merdock. He couldn’t tell his client that he hadn’t been laid in ten years—not ever by a woman who looked like Juliana. He couldn’t say what it did to him when she looked at him with those eyes of hers and then smiled and went down on him. Juliana was young, innocent, virginal-looking. Brown repulsed everyone he met. He couldn’t tell his client that when he pawed at her breasts with his fat fingers, they felt just like paradise. He couldn’t tell anyone that sex with Juliana was like gorging on forbidden fruit. That he really, really needed to eat the fruit.

Instead, Frank imagined, Brown would’ve come up with an excuse. He would’ve given Kay a reason why the information Frank had sent them wasn’t as good as it seemed. Frank wondered how Brown might have put it. Whatever the argument, he could see Lou Kay still wrestling with the conversation as he gave Merdock one last look and finally turned to the cameras.

“My opponent,” Kay said, coming to some sort of decision. “My opponent is the kind of man who chooses to read his answers out of a poll because he’s on TV tonight. He’s telling you what he thinks you want to hear. I don’t. Could the character issue be any more clear than that? My campaign has nothing to do with Mr. Merdock and what he can buy with all his money. Nor does it have anything to do with the people who tell him what to say. A person’s self-respect begins with a good education and a job they enjoy doing. That’s my campaign. That’s what I stand for and that’s who I am. It’s called the American Dream. And I think it’s time we dusted it off.”

The audience clapped, but with less enthusiasm than before. The debate was over and people were rising to their feet and hurrying for the lobby doors. What Lou Kay had said was eloquent, even true. But the message was over the audience’s head and Frank guessed that the debate had been a draw. Kay needed more than that. He had everything he needed to win the election tonight, but he hadn’t used it. Somehow Brown had convinced his client to take the high road instead.

The high road.

Frank looked up and saw the candidates crossing the stage toward the stairs and their dressing rooms. He got to his feet as if facing a firing squad. Merdock was smiling at him, overflowing with excitement and giddy with laughter. Merdock hadn’t made a mistake tonight and that’s all he really needed to do. He was mouthing the words, I won, Frank. I won. As Merdock finally vanished into the darkness beneath the stage, Frank knew that his good wife would be waiting for him in her new dress. He wondered if they’d kiss.

Chapter 57

He found a bathroom off the stage. Leaning over the sink, Frank scrubbed his face with soap and water. As he looked at himself in the mirror, he guessed that it would take more than soap and water to wash away the memory of what he’d witnessed tonight. What he’d just seen.

He wiped his face dry with a paper towel and walked out. As he crossed the stage, he passed the TV crew wrapping their lights and cameras. The theater was dark, the party over. But as he moved up the aisle toward the lobby, something caught his eye. It was Jake Merdock, huddled in the shadows of an exit nook with someone who looked like a college student or campaign volunteer. The kid was wearing thick glasses, a blue oxford shirt and khakis and appeared soft and round. They were speaking in whispers. Whatever the conversation, it seemed too intense for either one of them to notice Frank. As the student unfolded papers from his pocket and handed them to Jake, Frank legged it up the aisle to the lobby doors, relieved that he hadn’t been seen.

He needed air. The kind with nicotine in it.

The building lights had been shut down. A small group of Merdock supporters were waiting for their man on the front steps, chanting his name and waving banners in the darkness. Behind them Frank could see Merdock’s limo, still idling by the curb like a black cloud.

He lit a cigarette. Then he stepped away from the building and headed into the parking lot, still thinking it over. The press would treat the debate as a nonevent, the stories on TV brief. Merdock’s rising poll numbers would be displayed beside the reporter, adding to his momentum. Even if Frank found a way to leak the information himself, it wouldn’t be coming from Kay on LIVE television. Instead, it would have the look and feel of a typical campaign tactic. The kind of thing no one would believe or want to see. The election would be over long before anyone even got close to figuring it out.

Frank spotted his Chevy in the back of the lot. As he started toward the car, two men began rushing toward him from the shadows. He couldn’t make out their faces and quickened his step. Once they got closer, he turned back and realized that it was Lou Kay and Stewart Brown.

Frank took a deep breath and exhaled, giving Brown a hard look as the two men approached him. Brown’s usually sweaty skin had passed through his shirt, soaking his suit jacket around the collar and underneath his arms. He looked worried and distraught. It seemed obvious that Brown didn’t want to be here.

Frank turned to Kay, measuring him. “You were pretty good tonight,” he said. “Who wrote it?”

Lou Kay stood before him just as he had on stage. “I did,” he said. “I do most of my writing. I didn’t hire Stewart to beat Merdock, Frank. I can handle Mel on my own. I hired Stewart to beat you.”

Frank met his gaze and nodded. “But you didn’t mention the money Merdock paid your ex-wife to lie. You started to, then you stopped.”

Kay shrugged. Brown took a step forward, his voice shaking.

“How did you get a copy of that check, Frank?”

Frank ignored him, keeping his eyes on Kay. He wanted an answer and waited the candidate out.

Kay cleared this throat. “Stewart wasn’t sure that we could trust you,” he said finally. “We’ve been on the wrong side of your tricks before.”

“Bullshit,” Frank said, almost shouting. “I gave you everything you needed to turn this thing around. We’re only two days out. This was the moment. This was your last chance.” He glanced at Brown and noticed the man’s eyelids quivering. “What the hell are you doing, Brown? What are you up to?”

Frank tossed his cigarette onto the pavement and stepped on it. He didn’t need to ask Brown the question. He already knew what he was up to. Still, he found the man’s demeanor curious. Brown didn’t appear angry. Instead, he still seemed nervous, even confused.

A van pulled up to them and stopped. When the middle door slid open and a young woman from the campaign called out, Kay waved her off and turned back to Frank.

“I’m trying to run a clean campaign,” he said. “I don’t mind hitting Mel on the issues. Hitting him hard if I have to. But what good does it do anybody if I get in the mud with him?”

“What’s defending your name have to do with throwing mud?” Frank said.

Kay climbed into the van, taking a moment to think it over. “If something’s wrong with Merdock,” he said, “then why are you letting the president campaign with him tomorrow?”

Frank felt the pull in his gut. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t move. His eyes were locked on the van as he tried to absorb what he’d just learned. He recognized the driver. It was the campaign volunteer, the student he had seen talking to Jake Merdock in the theater.

Brown shuddered, his face still showing confusion. “What’s happened?” he said in a low voice. “Why are you doing this, Frank? Why are you trying to burn your own guy down?”

A long moment passed. Then Frank grabbed Brown by his jacket and yanked him closer. They were standing face to face, and he gave Brown a good look as he smiled at him through clenched teeth.

“Your fly’s down,” he said.

Brown froze, his beady little eyes lighting up with understanding. Frank pushed him away in disgust. As Brown stumbled toward the van and climbed in, Frank glanced back at the driver and caught the kid staring at him with a haunting stillness in his eyes. When the van finally drove off, Frank followed its progress through the lot until he began to notice the sound of Merdock’s supporters chanting their candidate’s name in the gloom.

He shook it off as best he could. Digging his cell phone out of his pocket, he climbed into the Chevy and sped out of the lot. Mario picked up on the second ring.

“It’s me,” Frank said. “You need to get over to RAVE’s office and make sure Eddie’s ready with his camera. That check to Sylvia Kay. They’re picking it up tonight.”

“How do you know that?”

“Kay didn’t use the negative on Merdock. Brown talked him out of it. Brown’s killing his own client.”

“He’s what?”

It was true. Frank still couldn’t believe that it was true.

“Brown’s throwing the race,” he said. “I’ve gotta make a stop and see somebody. Get over to RAVE’s office and make sure you get pictures. I’ll meet you there as soon as I can.”

Frank closed his cell phone and slipped it into his pocket, racing back to Washington. Someone he considered a good friend was in jeopardy and he needed to warn him. He needed to protect him.

Chapter 58

Raymond watched her get into the stretch limo with her husband. Even though he sat in the front seat with Norman feeling like hired help, the privacy window was down and he wouldn’t miss anything. It looked like Juliana and Mel were still pumped up from the debate. Jake sat beside the bar, facing them as they settled into the backseat. He was holding the papers in his hand, the fax that Frank Miles had sent to Lou Kay in secret. When Juliana got the news that her political hero was a dog, it would be better than sweet.

Jake had shown him the fax while they had been waiting. He’d given him some idea of what his next errand would be as well.

It had come to that. Raymond reduced to an errand boy, a sidekick, putting out fires in a plan that had gone to shit from the word go. He blamed her for it. Juliana. She was the one who’d said that they needed to get into politics, not her husband. Hiring Frank Miles had been her idea. Raymond could remember seeing that glint in her eye whenever she talked about him. He’d always known what was really on her mind—the thought behind the thought. And he’d always known that it was total bullshit. If he could have found a way out of this job without damaging his reputation and career, Raymond would have cut bait and run weeks ago. Instead, Jake had given him another mark and raised the ante by a multiple of two. It was a big mark. One that would have to look like an accident when the Metro detectives arrived.

“Lou Kay is a fool,” Merdock said, all amped up. “He didn’t know what he was saying. That’s when I knew I had him.”

Juliana took his hand. “You did everything Frank told you to do. You knew all your lines and looked right at the camera. You were wonderful, Mel. We’ve won.”

Her smiled faded slightly as she noticed Jake’s smirk. He held the fax out for her without saying anything. When she took the papers and switched on the reading light, what was left of her smile vanished into the night with a passing car.

“We’re gonna celebrate,” Merdock was saying. “What time is the governor meeting us?”

Jake turned to the driver. “We can celebrate later,” he said. “We’re going home. Turn the car around, Norman.”

“What’s wrong?” Merdock asked. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Jake said. “The governor had to cancel but sends his congratulations. We’ve got some business to care of, that’s all.”

Merdock sat back in the seat, nodding like he understood what was going on when everyone in the car knew that he really didn’t. Raymond had always thought of him as an idiot and turned back to Juliana. He looked her over, studying her face and waiting. The fax included photocopies of the check and wire transfer. At first it seemed like she didn’t get it. Like she didn’t see it. But then her eyes drifted to the top of the first paper and found Frank Miles’s fax ID. After that, she turned to the window and her eyes went blank. It was a death stare, he realized, only she was still breathing. Raymond had seen it before, but no one had ever been breathing.

Chapter 59

Frank looked through the windshield at the White House, waiting for the guard to open the gate. They were negotiating over the phone, the guard acting as the go-between with the president at the other end of the line. After a moment, the guard lowered the phone and turned to Frank.

“He says it’s late. Come back tomorrow. He’s in bed.”

Frank’s jaw tightened. “Tell him to get the fuck out of bed.”

The guard shot Frank a look and almost yelped. There was no need for him to repeat Frank’s message. The president had heard it on his own. Pressing the phone to his ear, the guard listened to his instructions and finally opened the gate. Then he told Frank that the president would see him in five minutes.

Frank pulled before the building and parked. He was worried. He’d been dealing with the Merdocks as if they were a regional problem. An isolated glitch. Now the malignancy was spreading.

He found the president in the White House kitchen pouring a drink from a bottle of Skyy vodka. Dressed in his official bathrobe and slippers, and in a bad mood, Frank guessed that the man had really been in bed when he got the call from the gate. On the drive over Frank had decided to give the president a full briefing. As he spoke, he watched his client and friend sip his drink and pick at a huge roast of beef. Frank remembered that the Prime Minister of Great Britain had been a dinner guest earlier in the evening.

The president listened without asking questions. When Frank had finished his story, the man turned to him, lifted his glass and took a long pull.

“That’s not the way the U.S. Attorney sees it, Frank. He says it’s you.”

“He’s dirty,” Frank said. “Merdock’s paying him off. He’s on the take.”

The president shook his head and narrowed his eyes. “The U.S. Attorney is a fine man. I made the appointment based on his record fighting crime.”

“Who wrote that, your lawyer?”

The president stopped and gave him a long look. “You only get to be president once, Frank. I’ve got legislation that I can’t get passed without a majority in the Senate. I told you that I needed Merdock to win.”

It was like a nightmare that kept going. A dream with that intense sensation of falling, only this time, Frank wasn’t certain that he’d wake up. The president had listened to everything he’d told him and was writing it off.

“Don’t you understand?” Frank said. “If you appear with Merdock tomorrow, it could look like you’re involved. It could look like you know.”

“Know what, Frank? You said that the election’s fixed. That Stewart Brown’s running an independent expenditure. What’s he calling it?”

“RAVE. The Committee for the Restoration of American Values and Ethics.”

The president thought it over and seemed to like the name. “Do you think Stewart’s involvement is anything more than political?”

“No,” Frank said. “He’s throwing the race to get laid. Juliana Merdock’s playing him for a fool.”

The president shrugged. Frank couldn’t help but catch that the president had called Brown by his first name.

“Special interest groups crop up like weeds on a hill,” the president said. “They’re faceless. Invisible. If the money went through a fund-raiser, then there’s no way of telling whose money went where. You couldn’t prove anything, you know that. Nothing you’ve said would stand up in court.”

“Four people are dead,” Frank said.

The president topped off his drink and sipped it without saying anything. Still, Frank was certain he had seen the man flinch. And there was something about his demeanor. They had worked the president’s campaign together. They had spent countless days and nights on the road together. They’d laughed together, traded their most personal stories together, even gotten drunk together. Now the president was shrouded in a cool winter frost.

“I was watching the news last night,” the president said in a quieter voice. “And you know what, Frank? It was the same news I’ve been watching for the last twenty years. The same issues going back and forth.” The president turned and looked at him. “People are tired of the bickering. The back and forth. They hate it, and I hate it, too.”

“You’re not listening to me.”

“I’ve never met the Merdocks, Frank. Tomorrow will be the first time. Maybe they’re who you say they are. Maybe not. In any case, I really don’t give a fuck who they are as long as Mel votes my way.”

They were getting loud. The door swung open and a man in a suit looked in. The president shrugged and waved him off without saying anything. When the door closed, Frank grabbed the bottle of vodka and finally poured himself a drink. He found a stool and slid it over. He needed to sit down.

“We’re talking about my legacy,” the president said. “The future of our party. Our ideas.”

Frank turned away, sickened. The Merdocks wanted the win so badly that they’d murdered four people who had stood in their way. The president wanted the Senate seat so much, he’d lost touch with reality. If what Brown had done ever came to light, producing TV ads against his own client, it was obvious the president thought that he had enough insulation to talk his way out of it. He didn’t know anyone involved, so how could he say with any certainty what they may or may not have done?

The bodies flashed before Frank’s eyes. The bottom line. Woody and Olson. Stockwell and Ingrams. He could see the blood. He could see all four laid out on the ground.

“This isn’t a war,” Frank said. “These people aren’t casualties.”

“Isn’t it?” the president shot back. “I could change the entire landscape of this country if I win back enough seats.”

Frank steadied himself, then drained his glass.

“You’re paranoid, Frank. You’re burned out and you sound crazy. I think that you’re still upset over Woody’s death and you’ve let it get to you. If you want my advice, you’ll take a long vacation when this is over and think about how you’re gonna save your career.”

Frank jerked his head up. The president was eyeing him like a snake.

“Juliana called,” the president said. “Your clients know about that fax you sent to Lou Kay. By tomorrow they’ll have copies of the stop orders you put on their media buy. Forget about Stewart Brown. Forget about what you think you know. Who would believe you after this? When it gets out that you’re the one who turned against his own client, you’ll end up losing a lot of business, I’m afraid.”

The kid with the Coke bottle glasses working for Stewart Brown. Frank suddenly realized that the papers he’d seen him pass to Jake in the theater had been his fax to Lou Kay.

“What are you trying to say?” Frank asked.

“I’m making a change.”

There was a pause big and heavy enough for twins. For some reason Frank couldn’t explain, his eyes zeroed in on the president’s hair. It looked like a bad dye job.

“You’re firing me?”

“You need a rest,” the president said flatly. “And I want someone with new ideas. Someone creative. Someone who’s hungry.”

Frank pushed his drink away, the world crumbling before his eyes. “Someone like Stewart Brown,” he said.

The president met his gaze and nodded.

Frank weighed the horror as it settled in beside leftovers from the Prime Minister of Great Britain’s roast beef dinner. So deep. So ugly. The whole thing was rotting, everybody spiraling out of control.

Chapter 60

Great men don’t usually go down for great reasons.

Frank drove with the windows open, the brisk night air rushing at his face as he tried to clear his mind and stay alert. Great men usually go down over something a lot smaller in size. Something that seems like nothing, snowballing its way to a hideous end. False assessments that were made, the enemy underestimated in a moment of overconfidence. A lack of information that seemed meaningless at the time suddenly explodes in your face, reminding everyone that you’re only human.

The president’s legacy was on the line. And Frank knew that the man would do anything to win his personal war for more power and greater influence. Even if it meant cutting a friend loose and throwing him into the weeds.

Frank lit a cigarette as he chewed it over. On the barely up side, he knew exactly what he was dealing with now. He’d isolated RAVE as a political scheme engineered by Stewart Brown. RAVE was a stealth operation designed to smear Lou Kay without leaving fingerprints. On the down side, four people had been murdered and Frank’s client was responsible for their deaths. Frank understood with certainty that he was back where he’d started after Ozzie Olson’s murder. The motives for the brutal killings had no more reach than the senseless attempt by the Merdocks to cover up Mel’s affair with the woman in Georgetown.

Frank didn’t need a sixth sense to guess what would come next. He was in the way of everyone involved, and the U.S. Attorney would make sure that he was removed.

Frank would be accused of the murders. The case would be based on circumstance and fiction and pressure from above. His character would be called into question, and what he’d done to his own client would be on display for all the world to see. Once his credibility had been thoroughly vanquished, then it would finally be over. No one would believe his side of the story. Nothing he could possibly say would change that.

Jefferson Drive was just ahead. Frank made the turn and spotted Mario and Eddie waiting for him on the other side of the street. When he pulled over, Mario leaned in the window and spoke in a low voice.

“He’s been in there for twenty minutes with the lights out.”

Frank turned to the run-down building and found the window on the second floor. A Mercedes was parked out front.

“You get pictures?” Frank asked.

Mario nodded. Eddie held up the camera. Both looked nervous.

“What about Lou Kay’s daughter and that sex-for-drugs scandal at her school?”

“She’s just a kid, Frank. They planted the stuff in her dorm room. Even the campus police think it’s bogus. The tip came in anonymously. It wasn’t a lead. Everything’s buried six feet down.”

The front door opened and Stewart Brown hurried outside lugging the answering machine and cardboard box filled with trash and what looked like mail. Brown was taking precautions, clearing out the office and covering his tracks. Eddie raised his camera, finishing off the roll of film as Brown popped open the trunk and dumped everything inside. Too rushed to notice them, Brown jumped into his Mercedes and sped off into the night.

“I’ll take it from here,” Frank said grimly. “Go home and get some rest.”

Frank waited until Brown disappeared around the corner. Then he made a U-turn and began following him.

He kept his distance, remaining a half-block back. When the Mercedes turned into the drive-thru window at an all-night Kentucky Fried Chicken, he parked on the street and waited, concentrating on his anger and trying to keep his emotions in check. Brown was a master at dirty politics. With RAVE, he’d reached the big time.

Frank shook it off, watching Brown order a large bucket of chicken and cruise out of the lot. After the Mercedes passed, Frank counted to ten before switching on his headlights and pulling away from the curb.

He followed Brown onto the Beltway. Fifteen minutes later, the Mercedes rolled up an exit ramp, made a right onto a two-lane road, then another right into a suburban neighborhood. Frank looked out the window at the houses and guessed that Brown wasn’t on his way home. They were small ranch jobs set on quarter-acre lots without trees. Pickup trucks and vans lined both sides of the street.

Brown parked in the drive of the only house with all its lights on. Frank found a space two doors down and pulled over, killing his headlights. After a moment, he saw Brown step into the backyard carrying his bucket of chicken and a bag of videotapes.

Frank got out of the car. He could hear a dog barking in the distance as he lit a cigarette and took in the house. The curtains were drawn. The place looked neglected. After three quick drags, he stepped on the butt and started into the yard.

Brown had entered the house from the back. Frank noticed the grime on a sliding door and saw a happy face sticker on the glass. The door remained open, his view concealed by a thin curtain. A cheap sign mounted on the exterior wall read DIGITAL IMAGE.

Frank peeked through the curtain. It was an unfinished basement set up like a video editing suite. An editor in his twenties sat before a computer in jeans and a T-shirt. Brown was slumped on the couch with his pants undone and his feet on the coffee table. He held a drumstick in his hand and was gnawing the chicken away from the bone in quick ravenous bites. As the editor played back a portion of the spot they were working on, Frank turned to the monitor and watched. It was work in progress, another ad for RAVE, only this time the TV wife was walking out of church with a girlfriend.

“But why is Lou Kay bad?” the girlfriend was asking.

A look of amazement washed over the TV wife’s face. “You’ve heard what everyone’s saying. Lou Kay doesn’t respect women. And he’s divorced. Didn’t you see his ex-wife on TV? Joe says that’s all we need to know.”

The TV wife looked up and saw her TV husband walking out of the church with a TV preacher. Everyone on camera looked like a freak.

“Hi, honey,” she said, waving her hand with an inflated smile. “Over here.”

It was garbage. And it was sick. The kind of TV spot that was slapped together in a basement late at night. Unable to contain himself, Frank pushed the curtain aside and stepped into the room. When the editor saw him enter, he nearly jumped out of his skin. When Brown finally turned and saw Frank walking toward him, he dropped that piece of fried chicken on his lap and froze.

“I needed to see it,” Frank said in a voice that rattled. “What are you making, something special for election day?”

Brown looked him over, beginning to panic. “I’m just the errand boy, Frank. The messenger.”

Frank grimaced, moving closer without saying anything. He was standing over Brown and watching him wipe the grease off his face. Brown’s hands were trembling.

“I do the work and you get the credit,” Brown said quickly. “You get the win, Frank. Now knock it off and get the hell out of here.”

Frank stared back at him for a long time. And then something happened. He could feel the energy inside his body.

He could feel it melting down. He could feel it releasing.

He grabbed the bucket of chicken and dumped it on the concrete floor. When the editor bolted up the steps in terror, he turned back to Brown and gave him a hard kick. Brown tumbled off the couch and bounced onto his stomach. He started groaning. Whining. As he scrambled to his knees and tried to pull up his pants, Frank gave him another hard kick and knocked him down again. Brown’s eyes went dead and he screamed. Then Frank seized him by the back of the head and pushed his sweaty face into all that chicken.

“Eat it,” he said, shouting. “Eat it, you greasy prick. Eat it.”

Chapter 61

On his own again, Raymond drove through Georgetown at 3:00 a.m. with his tape player just changing sides. Tape 5, side 2 in the series included, keeping your client happy even when you’re not, how to turn rejection around and finally close that big deal, and mastering the art of a winning smile. As much as Raymond loved the series, every time he listened to tape 5 he wished that the author had taken the time to expound on the issues in greater detail.

Closing the deal. There had to be something more to it than calling it an art.

Raymond knew that the reason most people blew it was because they over-thought the process. This was the moment when something invariably went wrong. The moment when he had to keep his eyes and ears open, ignore the negatives and make his big push forward. The author likened this step to a football game as well. Every close game came down to a final drive. This was the time to review your ultimate goal, take another look at your plan, and make sure that you were ready before you stepped out onto the battlefield.

Raymond made a left at the corner. As Frank’s house came into view, he shielded his eyes from the glare and hit the brakes. The street was lined with news vans. Cameras and lights were set up all over the lawn. The night was bright as day.

Raymond ejected the tape, returning the cassette to its case and gazing through the windshield. He counted twenty-five video cameras mounted on tripods. More than fifty people were camped out, drinking takeout coffee and smoking cigarettes. Whatever the story, it had obviously spread beyond the local affiliates.

Raymond’s eyes moved to the house. The windows were dark and the metallic blue Chevy that he’d hoped to find parked in the driveway was gone. When he saw a man getting out of news van, he pulled forward and rolled down his window.

“What’s going on?” Raymond asked, yawning as if he lived in the neighborhood and was late getting home.

“Morning news,” the man said, jerking his thumb at the house. “He worked for the president. Past tense. We’re waiting for him to come home.”

The man smiled. Raymond nodded and smiled back, then idled off. The press would be keeping a close watch on Frank. Getting to him would be more difficult now.

Ignore the negatives, he thought to himself. Get those voices out of your head. The press was nothing more than an occupational hazard that couldn’t be helped. And they definitely looked preoccupied. Their attention wouldn’t be on the house, but on the street as they waited for Frank to return home. Who were they to interfere with his plans?

Raymond made a left just past the house and parked around the corner. Olson’s night-vision goggles were in the glove box. Slipping them into his pocket, he got out of the car and started down the street. Ever since Jake had given him the go, he’d been considering his options. On the drive over he’d narrowed his choices down to two. In either case, Frank’s house had to be scouted tonight. He had to see the place just to make sure.

The moon was out. Raymond stopped at the corner and gazed up the street. The news vans blocked his view of Frank’s house and were providing perfect cover. Crossing the street, he scanned the neighboring property. The house was dark. Several days’ worth of newspapers were piled up by the front door. As he moved to the far side of the drive, he noticed the dew on the lawn. The grass was matted and he spotted a fresh set of tracks leading into the backyard.

The press never seemed to respect their boundaries. They were always getting in the way. Always making his job more difficult than it needed to be. Raymond lifted his pant leg and checked for the knife that he kept sheathed just above his right ankle. Then he walked down the drive, cutting into the yard and around the house. The property was densely landscaped. Keeping to the shadows, he could see Frank’s house on the other side of the fence. No one seemed to be around, and Raymond wondered about the tracks he’d found on the neighbor’s lawn. Through the trees he could see the aura of the camera lights and hear the sound of the press chattering away as if they were at a party. When he turned back, he scanned the property a second time but still didn’t see anyone.

Without making any sound, Raymond finally stepped out from behind the tree and moved toward the fence. He stopped and listened. He could hear something moving in the darkness. He turned and looked across the yard at the back porch. It was a dog. He was trotting down the steps and seemed rushed. After taking a quick shit in the pachysandra, the beast scampered back up the steps and vanished into the house through a doggy-door.

The dog was a definite complication. Raymond hated dogs just as much as they seemed to hate him. It was visceral on both sides. Although he’d shot them on numerous occasions, it had always been messy and unnerving. Dogs were hard to stop. Even with a slug in its chest, a dog could keep coming, keep barking and biting. For Raymond dogs were the stuff of nightmares, and he often woke up in the middle of the night with his heart pounding in his chest.

He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. Something caught his eye as he looked back at the house. The windows were dark, but he thought that he could see a small bead of light in a window on the second floor. The light faded, then glowed. When he realized that it was the head of a cigarette, he ducked out of the moon light and below the line of the fence.

Frank Miles was home. He’d probably been watching him from that window since he’d stepped out from behind the tree.

Raymond dug the night-vision goggles out of his pocket and slipped them over his head. As he peeked over the fence and adjusted the focus, he saw Frank staring back at him from a chair by the window. The image was clear and vivid and he could see the entire room. Raymond waited for five minutes, but Frank’s eyes never moved away from him. When he finally backed away from the fence, he saw Frank stand up and follow his progress through the neighbor’s yard.

His body shivered in the cool night air. Frank Miles had known that he was here all along. It was almost as if his next target had been expecting him. Waiting for him to show up.

Raymond hurried back around the neighbor’s house and across the street to his car. He noticed the Chevy parked on the next block and thought about those tracks he’d seen on the lawn again. As he drove off, he tried to assess the damage in giving his next victim such a clear warning. There wasn’t any, he decided, because Frank Miles wasn’t capable of guessing what he had in mind. Raymond didn’t like him. He didn’t like his face, or the way that he had been staring at him. It was a strong face, just like the one he’d seen in the diner when Jake thought that he had the guy cornered. It was a face much like the one he liked to think he wore when confronting his victims. Jake had been right. The guy was an asshole who liked to screw with people’s heads. It would be a pleasure taking him out.

Chapter 62

Frank slid his bottom desk drawer open and looked at the gun. A Glock .45 with an extended clip. He checked the office before touching it. Tracy was at her desk keeping an eye on the callers in the conference room. His interns were busy on the phone, tracking spots between the campaigns and the TV and radio stations—everyone panicked because now they were only one day out. Tomorrow voters would be at the polls. When he looked in Linda’s office, she was still on the phone with her client in Colorado. They’d been at it for over an hour. Things weren’t going well in the Rockies.

Frank picked up the Glock, keeping it hidden behind the desk. He admired the simplicity of its design. He liked the weight—the way it felt in his hand. As he checked the mag, he noticed his hand quivering slightly from too much coffee. He hadn’t been able to sleep last night. He hadn’t even gotten close. He’d been sitting by the window trying to drink his way past all that had happened when he saw the man with spiked gray hair step out of the shadows and approach the fence. After that all he felt was terror.

Frank glanced outside at the office parking lot below. The press had followed him to work and reestablished their base camp on the sidewalk. Without the cover of night, Frank had been caught climbing his fence in the backyard this morning. He’d made a run for it, but they were ready for him. Cameras had been rigged on shoulders and it turned into an ugly foot race with the Armani-clad reporters shouting questions at him as he reached the car. The scope of their interest had widened. They were asking about the murders and why the president had really fired him. It was clear to Frank that someone in the U.S. Attorney’s office was setting the table and had leaked information. Things didn’t look so good.

Frank looked back at the gun in his hand, wondering if he would have to use it or not. It was a .45. One loud pop was all it would take, if it came to that.

He heard Tracy shriek from her desk, calling out his name.

He looked through the glass and saw Merdock and Jake marching though the war room with their attorney in tow. Frank lowered the gun and pushed the drawer closed. Norman was with them, providing security, Frank guessed, along with two geeks in khakis who looked like typical campaign losers but might be trouble.

Frank stepped out of his office. He’d expected a telephone call, not a personal appearance. As they came closer, Merdock pointed a shaky finger at him.

“You’re trying to sabotage my campaign,” Merdock shouted. “You’re fired. This is my attorney.”

The attorney turned to Frank. He was the same man Frank had spent an entire afternoon with when scouting his office for Merdock’s last set of campaign ads.

“Frank Miles?” he asked unnecessarily.

Frank nodded slowly as their eyes met. Merdock’s attorney was short and stocky like a pit bull terrier still not recognized by the American Kennel Club. He was pushing sixty and everything about his grooming appeared meticulous. Judging from the client list the man had shown him last month, Frank guessed that he had been well fed over the years, and that the tan he sported came from the tennis courts rather than a chaise longue.

The attorney held his needlepoint eyes on Frank as he handed him a court order.

“This is a writ of seizure,” the pit bull said. “A writ of seizure ordering you to turn over everything pertaining to Mr. Merdock’s campaign for the U.S. Senate.”

Frank looked the papers over as the two geeks in khakis dispersed, one gathering videotapes, the other opening a briefcase and sitting before the computer at an intern’s desk. The computers were networked. They could access any data they might want from the entire system.

Randolph walked in, nodded at Frank but kept his distance as if he were a neutral observer. Then the attorney cleared his throat, his tail still up and the hair behind his ass standing on end.

“These men are authorized by the court to recover everything, whether it be stored on paper, computers or videotape without interference by you, your remaining partner, or any of your employees.”

The pit bull’s words had an understated weight about them. Merdock’s voice was more shrill.

“I’m going to sue your ass off,” Merdock said, still pointing that finger. “After my press conference this afternoon, you’ll be finished.”

Frank glanced at Merdock. He could tell that his former client was delighted with himself and the situation Frank was in. Standing with Jake and using their attorney and Norman’s hulking figure for cover, the two brothers looked like bookends dressed in expensive suits. Both of them cocky and showing big smiles. Frank looked back at the court order without saying anything. He checked the signatures and began reading it from the top with everyone watching him. The pit bull seemed annoyed by this and took a step forward.

“It’s a writ of seizure,” he said. “There are no conditions. You have no say whatsoever in the matter.”

“Did you hear that?” Jake added. “You’ve got no say, big shot.”

Frank didn’t react to either one of them, continuing to read the document until he was finished. When he looked up, he noticed the pit bull shaking slightly, and guessed that direct confrontations like this weren’t exactly a part of his normal routine anymore.

“Harry,” Frank said to his intern in a calm voice. “I want you to watch the guy on your computer. Tom, keep an eye on the other one. Make sure that they only take what’s theirs. I want a complete inventory. If there’s any question, any doubt whatsoever, I want to know about it before they take it.”

Merdock and Jake smiled as Frank seemed to be giving in to their power play. Frank glanced at Linda standing by the fax machine and Tracy seated at her desk. Then Merdock noticed the callers working the phones in the conference room with the door closed.

“What’s going on in there?” he asked in a loud voice.

Frank looked at him steadily. “That’s not part of this order, Mel.”

“But what are they saying? I demand to hear what they’re saying.”

Merdock lunged for the door knob. Frank met his hand and squeezed it before pulling it away. The glint in Frank’s eye was quiet and dangerous, and Merdock and his attorney took a step back.

“Try your radio on the way home,” Frank said.

Merdock rubbed his hand like it might be broken. When they got started with their search, Frank stepped into his office, followed by Randolph, who closed the door. They didn’t speak. The detective moved to the window, glancing outside at the press as he lit a cigarette. Frank pulled a chair away from the table and sat down, keeping a sharp eye on the war room. He didn’t need to see the press. They had followed him to work and it had paid off for them, simple as that. Frank knew every camera would be rolling as Merdock and Jake packed their Lincoln with files and videotapes. The story had a new, unknown dimension about it. Merdock would have a full house at his press conference. The president would be there to back him up. Frank would be skewered in public this afternoon and he knew it.

Randolph sat down on the couch and sighed. “I know a judge,” he said quietly. “We could probably get them to stop.”

“I don’t want it stopped. Not yet anyway.”

Randolph shrugged like he didn’t get it. Frank turned back to the war room, keeping watch by the glass door.

“People with money pay others to do their dirty work for them,” Frank said after a moment. “When they show up themselves, they’ve usually got a reason.”

“What reason is that?”

“Pretend you’re a detective. Take a look for yourself.”

Randolph smiled and shook his head, moving in for a closer look. Grimes stood by the lobby door, leaning against the wall and grinding his teeth as he stared at Jake.

“Looks like my partner got tired of waiting in the car,” Randolph said.

“Take another look.”

Randolph turned back to the war room. After a moment, Frank saw the change on his face. He was seeing what Frank was seeing. It may have been subtle, but the confirmation was there. Merdock and Jake looking around, searching the office casually, here and there.

“They’re still looking for the pictures,” Randolph said. “You think there’s any chance your partner made contact with Olson?”

“I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“You don’t have them, do you?”

Frank gave him a look without saying anything.

“Then they’re covering their bases just to make sure. Someone with Merdock’s image gets caught in an affair and there’s pictures to prove it. TV loves that shit. I guess they always will. I’m sorry, Frank. I should have seen it before. I just kept thinking that there had to be something bigger going on.”

“You’ve found something?”

The detective nodded. “Their friend with the hair. His name’s George Raymond. He used to work for Merdock’s father. When the old man died, Raymond moved to Baltimore. He’s got a wife and two sons who think he sells mutual funds. His neighbors say that he keeps to himself and likes to listen to all those self-help tapes. And that’s fine with them because everybody in the neighborhood told Grimes that they think he’s a head case. The guy’s nuts.”

“What’s the U.S. Attorney think?”

“He loves the good life, Frank. The Merdocks can give it to him. You’re still it.”

Randolph’s pager buzzed. He opened his jacket and checked the number.

“That’s him now,” the detective said.

Frank grabbed the phone before Randolph could reach it. “Let me ask you something before you check in. After Woody was murdered, you searched his house, right?”

The detective shook his head and shrugged as he thought it over. “For the pictures?” he said. “We thought it was a robbery, remember? We thought it was about cash and credit cards. It happened here in this office. There wouldn’t have been a reason to search your partner’s house.”

Frank released the phone, listening to Randolph make his call as he stared through the glass into the war room. The conversation was brief. The U.S. Attorney wanted to see Randolph and Grimes in his office, but wouldn’t say why.

Chapter 63

It was a modest Victorian set close to the street within walking distance to Capitol Hill. Frank parked in the drive. As he walked to the front door, he dug into his pocket and fished out the spare keys that he’d found in Woody’s top desk drawer.

There were two locks on the door. Frank started with the deadbolt, found the key and turned the lock. When the lock in the handle clicked with the second key, he tried the door but it wouldn’t budge. Frank went back to the deadbolt, turning the key in the opposite direction. This time the door opened. Either Woody hadn’t used the deadbolt when he closed the door, which Frank doubted, or Raymond had already been here. Raymond had picked the lock at their office and wouldn’t have had any trouble getting past these. But he probably wouldn’t have taken the time or risk to lock the deadbolt on his way out. Instead, Raymond would have turned the lock on the handle and simply pulled the door closed.

Frank stepped into the foyer, listening to the house and overwhelmed by its eeriness. All the lights were on, and he could feel a chill crackling up his spine as he looked around. A small chest had been placed just below the stairway. The drawers were open and he found gloves and scarves packed and ready for the winter ahead. He could smell the wool and faint scent of cedar lining the drawers. The sense of finality—his friend’s death—was overwhelming.

A moment passed, deep and quiet, until he finally noticed the sound of a clock ticking. As he stepped into the living room, he saw an antique grandfather clock standing against the wall by the window. However faint, Woody’s house still had a measurable pulse. Frank checked the clock’s time against his watch. The pulse was fading, the time, six hours off. Frank couldn’t help wondering when the old clock had last been wound and didn’t want to think about what might click off in his head if he were to hear it finally stop. Opening the glass door, he found the clock key behind the face and tightened the spring. Then he reset the time. It was 4:30 p.m. Merdock’s press conference would just be getting started. Perfect timing for the evening news. Within the next half hour, Frank’s career would be over. Within the next thirty minutes, Frank would be the issue, not Merdock or Olson or even Woody.

He shook it off, turning to the writing table beside the bookcases set against the far wall. He’d start here, he decided. He’d search the first floor and work his way upstairs. As he approached the writing table, he noticed a photograph set in a silver frame and picked it up. It was a black-and-white picture of Frank and Woody taken in a parking garage a long time ago. The angle was cocked to one side. Frank remembered that they had taken the picture themselves using the camera’s timer. They had just started the business, working clients together and still a long way off from making any real money.

Frank wiped a water spot off the glass with his thumb. The mayor of Trenton, New Jersey had been up for reelection. Frank and Woody were handling his opponent and needed a shot of the acting mayor to go along with the newspaper headlines they’d collected. It was a shitty race, negative all the way. And there was talk that the mayor had mob connections, which added a measure of fear to the pot and made the whole thing a little crazy for two unknown consultants just finding their way.

The political go-to guy in the county, Vic Patterson, had told them over the phone that the mayor walked out of his office at City Hall every day at three sharp, got into his black Lincoln and drove home. He said that the mayor parked his car in front of the building, and that a garage stood directly across the way. The view would be perfect.

Frank and Woody had driven up from Washington with a camera and tripod, wondering how Patterson could know so much about the mayor’s routine. But when they finally arrived in Trenton and found City Hall, everything that the man had told them turned out to be true. They pulled into the parking garage, drove up to the third floor and found a spot for the camera. Then they waited.

They were an hour early and had a bird’s-eye view of the entire town. Trenton was an industrial city without any industry. Much of the landscape had been burned down or abandoned. It looked like the kind of place where the rules had been forgotten and everyone on the street was either somebody’s next victim or heavily armed.

Frank could remember how nervous they were as they waited out the hour. Even though they were hidden, their hearts were pounding and they were both chaining cigarettes down. But then at three sharp, the lobby doors swung open and out walked the mayor just as Vic Patterson had said he would.

Frank ran over to the camera and switched it on. The mayor was only about twenty-five feet away from the building when he spotted them three floors up and looked right down the barrel of the lens. The man stopped dead in his tracks and Frank could see fear in his eyes, like just maybe the camera was a rifle and he was about to die. The moment only lasted for a few seconds. Once the mayor realized what was actually happening, his fear for his life gave way to a heavy dose of indecision. It looked like he wasn’t sure if he should run back into the building or continue to his car. Another moment passed before he caught himself. Then he looked down at the ground, rushed over to his car and sped out of the lot into the ruined cityscape.

On the drive back to Washington Frank remembered telling Woody that they could have been killed. Woody laughed and cracked open another beer from the six-pack they’d bought on the way out of town. He was saying something like we could have been dead, but we weren’t. This time it was the mayor who was going down. It was all a front, Frank knew. Woody had been just as nervous as he was.

Still, Woody’s prediction proved to be true. The mayor’s campaign for reelection ended the moment the man noticed the camera and looked at the lens. He had done nothing wrong, but the image came off like he was doing everything wrong. The fear in his eyes read like guilt. The moment of indecision, as if he were running away from a crime with everyone watching TV as his witness. When election day finally came, the mayor went down in a landslide, never to be heard from again.

Frank placed the picture back on the writing table, wondering why he hadn’t understood it before. What had happened in Trenton should have been something he considered. A sign on the road that he never should have missed.

Chapter 64

Raymond saw the mall ahead and turned into the parking structure. He looked around for the level designation and spotted the letter C stenciled on a concrete post beside an image of a cat. Even though it was late on a Monday afternoon and the mall didn’t appear busy, shopping for a car on the ground level would be too risky.

He found the ramp and cruised down to the next floor, noting the B stenciled on the wall beside an icon of a bear. Then his eyes moved to the first row of cars, coasting by them slowly. The car would have to be big, he decided. Big and heavy enough to absorb a collision and remain roadworthy for a mile or two. As he turned down the next aisle he found just what he was looking for. A Ford LTD wagon at least thirty years old. It looked like a battering ram on wheels. The body had been sprayed with a dull coat of primer and would be hard to spot at night. He particularly liked the darkened windows in back. Any cargo he might be carrying would be hidden from view.

Marveling at his good fortune, Raymond continued around the exit ramp until he found a space visible from the entrance to the mall. As he parked, he noticed the light overhead. He knew the percentages with auto theft and wanted his Honda to be here when he returned later that night. This was a safe spot, as good as any on the floor.

He reached for the canvas tote bag on the backseat and took an inventory of its contents. On his way over he had stopped by the long-term parking lot at the airport. The set of plates that he’d pulled off a BMW were on top. Pushing them aside, he checked the charge on his power screwdriver and made sure that his hand tools were easily accessible. He doubted that the LTD had an alarm system. Once he got the plates changed and the door open, he’d be on the road in less than two minutes.

A car blinked its lights and tapped its horn at him. Raymond turned and saw a teenage girl waiting for his space. He shook his head at her and the car moved on. When it vanished around the corner, Raymond got out of his car with the tote bag and locked the door.

He slipped into a pair of latex gloves. Passing the entrance to the mall, he made a mental note of the time it took until he cleared the exit ramp and the LTD came into view. Fifteen seconds. If someone entered the garage, he would hear the doors and have plenty of warning.

Raymond moved down the aisle, reaching into the bag for his power screwdriver as he glanced around. He was alone. Ready. He started with the back plate, then moved to the front. Within a few minutes, he’d made the switch and was headed for the driver’s door. There wasn’t an alarm. The door wasn’t even locked. Raymond guessed that the owner didn’t feel the need to lock up because the car had shit-wagon written all over it.

Raymond popped open the ignition, drawing out the wires and reconnecting them. When he’d finished, the engine turned over and the LTD began to sputter and shake itself awake. Clouds of black smoke spewed from the exhaust pipe. Raymond slammed the door shut and backed out of the space. As he passed his Honda, he waved good-bye and rumbled up the exit ramp. The steering was loose, but he could feel the car’s weight. They used steel back then, he thought to himself, the heavier the better. Tonight would be a memorable occasion and he smiled. He couldn’t help it. There really was an art to it, just like the author of his audio book always said.

Chapter 65

By the time Frank pulled into the lot at his office it was already half past seven. He’d searched every room in Woody’s house. He’d worked slowly, methodically, trying to ignore anything of emotional value that stirred up memories. It hadn’t worked, especially as he went through Woody’s desk in the study. Still, he hadn’t found the photographs that he’d been looking for. The snapshots. Mel Merdock under the sheets with his sugar baby in Georgetown.

As Frank swung the office door open and locked it from the other side, he remembered Merdock’s press conference. By now it would have been over, the results broadcast on the evening news. He tried not to think about it, trudging up the steps into the war room. Woody’s desk light was on and he could hear someone inside the office shuffling papers. When he stopped in the doorway, he found Linda seated on the floor searching through a file on her lap. She must have been at it for hours, looking for the photos just as he had. Discarded files had been stacked four feet high and pushed against the wall. What files remained were on the carpet beside her crossed legs.

“Nothing?” he asked.

She shook her head without looking at him.

“Me either,” he said.

A long moment passed. Frank entered the room and sat down on the couch.

“Merdock held his press conference,” she whispered finally. “The president was with him and said the right things. The worst things. They said that you stopped Merdock’s media buy with five days to go. They passed out copies of the receipts as proof. Then the phones started ringing. Most of your clients called.”

“Most?”

“Everyone except Helen Pryor.”

Frank thought it over, his clients running for cover. Everyone of them except Helen.

“Then I’m out of business,” he said.

Linda nodded with a heavy look in her eyes. She picked up a manila envelope and handed it to him.

“Mario had prints made of Stewart Brown outside RAVE’s office.”

Frank opened the envelope, sifting through the photos. “They’re close ups,” he said. “They don’t tie him to the building.”

Linda didn’t say anything. Frank returned them to the envelope and fastened the metal clasp. He’d lost his business for turning against his own client. He’d been caught sabotaging Merdock’s campaign and it had been made public. No one would ever trust him again. No one would believe his story. He saw Linda turn away, wiping a tear away from her cheek. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, even though he knew that he couldn’t because he’d lost her, too.

She cleared her throat and turned back to him. “Mario called a half-hour ago,” she whispered. “Eddie’s missing.”

“Did he call the cops?”

She nodded. “He said he’d call back when he had news.”

Chapter 66

The LTD pulled away from the curb at Frank’s house, rolling down the street and requiring an extra wide berth. The press had packed up and gone. From the calls Raymond had heard on the talk radio stations, he imagined that Frank was in agony right now. Probably still at his office on the phone trying to save his sinking ship. Putting him down would be an act of mercy, no different than shooting a horse with a broken leg.

Raymond cruised through Georgetown, ignoring the smug looks he got when he stopped at red lights. In spite of the heavy fog, there were plenty of people on the sidewalks giving him dirty looks as they waited to get into the restaurants and bars. The LTD’s timing was off. With every stop, Raymond had to keep the idle goosed in order to prevent a stall.

People could be so selfish, so fucking rude.

Raymond worked his way toward the Hill, keeping an eye out for cops and passing the White House without incident. The sound of the LTD seemed to be getting louder. It had an energy to it—a force like thunder—pulling him through the night toward his mark.

Frank’s office was just ahead. Backing his foot off the gas, he peered through the fog into the parking lot as he coasted by. The office windows were lighted, but a black Explorer obstructed most of his view. Raymond circled the block and stopped on the other side of the street. He must have just missed them. Now the building was dark, the Explorer gone. The lot was empty except for Woody’s abandoned car.

But then something caught Raymond’s eye. When he turned, he saw a car vanishing around the corner.

Metallic blue.

Raymond gunned the engine, the LTD rocketing forward. As he made the turn, he spotted the Chevy two blocks ahead and slowed down. He needed to be patient. This wasn’t the place and it didn’t look like Frank was in much of a hurry to get home. When the Chevy reached 7th Street, the car turned right, heading south. Then Frank made another right onto Constitution Avenue. It occurred to Raymond that Frank wasn’t on his way home. Instead, it looked like he was driving toward the monuments.

Chapter 67

Frank looked up the steps at the memorial. There was a momentary break in the fog and he could see Abraham Lincoln sitting in his chair for maybe a second or two. The stone-faced president was staring at him, or so it seemed, before the hazy cloud rolled back in again.

Frank shivered and turned away. Then he noticed a figure walking toward him in the gloom. He recognized him before his face took on any detail. It wasn’t Mario this time. Instead, it was Lou Kay, and they shook hands.

“You’re going to lose,” Frank said evenly. “It’s gonna be a landslide, Lou.”

When Kay shrugged it off like he still might have a chance, Frank handed him the photos of Stewart Brown tossing an answering machine into the trunk of his Mercedes. Kay sat down on the steps and held them to the light. Frank took a seat beside him, briefing him on what his consultant had done and who he was doing it with. Kay had put his life in Brown’s hands, his future. They’d worked side by side for most of the last year. Stunned by the betrayal, Kay mumbled Brown’s name a few times as it sank in. Juliana Merdock had used her body to get to Brown and Brown wasn’t about to let go.

“What about the law?” Kay said more clearly. “There’s got to be a law.”

“If you took Brown to court, you’d lose. You’d never be able to prove what he’s done to you. As long as the names stay buried with the money, everything’s legal.”

“Legal?” Kay said. “What about my family? My daughter?”

“The closest you’re gonna get is a review of your own media buy,” Frank said. “I’ll bet Brown rotated your spots so often, no ad played for more than a day or two. I only saw them because I was looking for them. But no one else did. No one outside the business. Call the stations and get the receipts. But even if he did bury your ads, it proves as much as these pictures do. Nothing.”

Reaching into his pocket, Frank dug his cigarettes out and lit one. He’d been wiped out, too. Kay stood up, rubbing the back of his neck and thinking it over.

“I thought this kind of thing ended with Watergate, Frank.”

“That’s not where it ended,” he said. “That’s where it started. One party going after the other, Lou. Watergate was basic training. These people want the seat and they’re gonna take it. If you want to dig, all you’ll find is mirrors. But I can tell you how it’s done.”

Kay turned and looked at him. Frank lowered his eyes, staring into the fog.

“You’d start with background checks,” he said. “People make mistakes, like you said at the debate. You’d look for their mistakes, Lou. An illegitimate child. A bitter ex-wife. Then you’d threaten them with exposure and watch their campaign nose dive until it hits the ground.”

Kay looked down at the pavement, shaking his head at what had happened to him.

“If you couldn’t find a mistake,” Frank said after a moment. “You’d use greed. The president pays your opponent off with a great job offer to get him out of the race. A local TV reporter takes cash to hammer your opponent every night on the news. That ex-wife stages a press conference on the courthouse steps and lies in front of the cameras for a big payday.”

Frank wasn’t seeing the fog anymore. He was standing in the void. The black.

“If none of that works, you’d make things up,” he said in a quieter voice. “You’d find a third party candidate and get him on the ballot so he steals votes away from your opponent. You’d get creative, Lou. Your opponent owns a chain of restaurants. One day they’d be overrun with rats. Or how’s this? You blanket a liberal district with a fake newsletter claiming that your opponent’s just been endorsed by the NRA. You time the newsletter to hit the day before the election so that your opponent doesn’t have time to get out the truth. Or even better, Lou. The gold ring. You see your opponent looking for his runaway niece outside a porno theater and a strip bar. You shoot it and run the ad, leaving the niece out of the story and destroying your opponent’s life.”

Kay turned to him. “Ozzie Olson.”

“That’s the way it’s done,” Frank said. “Just the way they framed your daughter and used your ex-wife. Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing.”

It hung there with Kay staring at Frank in the mist.

“Does this have anything to do with your partner’s murder, Frank?”

He thought it over, then got rid of his cigarette. “The kind of people running for office. It’s an old story, Lou. They still want to be kings.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“Tomorrow’s election day.”

“It’s after midnight. We’re already there.”

“Then take the loss and run again. You’re a natural just like Helen Pryor. I’ll help you find someone you can trust when this is over.”

“What if I wanted you?”

Frank got to his feet. “You’ve just heard my confession. I’ve done enough damage. Besides, my reputation burned down five hours ago.”

“Mine’s pretty good, too,” Kay said. “Let’s do it, Frank. Let’s fight it and beat it together. I couldn’t make it without you.”

Chapter 68

Frank crossed the street, heading off the Mall and down the block to his car. He felt dizzy, getting all the garbage out of his head at once. For some impossible reason, he couldn’t stop thinking about Merdock’s library. The books lining the walls that had been purchased by an interior decorator and placed on the shelves for effect. There was something about it that he found unnerving.

Frank shuddered, picking up his pace. By now the block looked deserted, the gas station he was passing, closed. He spotted his rental car on the other side of the street and started toward it. As he unlocked the door, someone in a beat-up station wagon turned the corner, moving behind his back in a slow arc. The noise was horrendous.

He got into the Chevy and locked the door, thinking of the signs he’d missed along the way. He remembered his first win in the House. The candidate was someone both he and Woody admired. About a year after the election, they were making the rounds trying to drum up new business and stopped by the congressman’s office. When they walked in, Frank noticed that there wasn’t anything on the man’s desk. Not a file or a pen. Not a single piece of paper or even a note. Still, the congressman was a favorite on the talk show circuit and seemed to have a lot to say.

The headlights from a car spiked off the rearview mirror. Frank noticed the sound of that station wagon again. Squinting through the glare, he looked into the mirror and saw the car rushing toward him at high speed. His eyes moved instinctively to the driver’s face. It was Raymond, clinching his teeth and wild eyed—just before impact.

The blow had the feel of being struck by a freight train. Frank’s head hit the windshield, then slammed back against the passenger seat. He could feel the car’s body buckle as it shot into the middle of the street.

A moment passed. Everything hazy.

As he laid across the front seat, he could hear the LTD backing up and panting like an angry bull. The air bags deployed and he seemed puzzled. Groggy. When he heard the LTD’s tires screeching, he grabbed the passenger door handle and braced himself. The Chevy took a second hit, harder than the first, and he could feel the car skidding sideways. There was a crunching noise. Frank saw what looked like the trunk folding over the backseat in slow motion. Shattered glass from the rear window crashed over his body in a wave that cut and slashed. When he turned away from the glass, he looked through the windshield and saw the service station rushing toward him. The gas pumps were bouncing into the air, the Chevy sheering them off and finally zigzagging to a hard stop.

Gasoline shot into the sky like an oil well. Frank watched it rolling down the windows, his eyes glassy. It sounded like a rain storm, maybe even a hurricane.

He turned and peered out the side window, following the gasoline as streamed across the lot and splashed off the curb. A flood pool was forming in the street. He saw the LTD back up, dragging its front bumper across the pavement, bright red sparks aglow. The car stopped, its engine roaring even louder now. Frank could see Raymond staring back at him and understood what was about to happen next. If the gasoline in the street ignited, half the block would burn down. Once the fire was out, identifying Frank’s body wouldn’t be a matter for the police or even close friends. They’d need his dentist.

The LTD suddenly thrust forward, the front bumper sparking like a firing pin off the pavement as Raymond made one last push.

Frank ripped open the passenger door, struggling to get out. His right leg was caught beneath the crumpled-up dash and the passenger-side air bag. Gasoline rained down on him, burning what felt like holes in his eyelids. He could hear tires squealing in the background, the LTD’s engine pounding forward. He spotted his cell phone on the floor, but grabbed his pant leg and yanked himself free. Staggering into the darkness, he turned back and saw the death wagon dragging its red-hot bumper past the pool of gasoline, then vanishing into the night as the car hit air speed. The gasoline ignited. Everything went dead quiet, and in that brief moment, Frank thought that he could hear Juliana screaming from her broomstick, We’ve won, Frank! We’ve won! Then Frank covered his face, shouting at an explosion so big and bright that it seemed like high noon.

Chapter 69

That twitch in his eye was back.

Raymond saw Jake and Norman waiting for him in the Lincoln and parked the battered LTD across the street. He wanted to kill something, anything—he needed to see something stop breathing. He got out of the car with his bag of tools and slammed the door. By the time he slid into the backseat of the Lincoln, his other eye had started throbbing. He pulled the latex gloves off and slipped them into his pocket. He had been wearing them for hours, his fingertips so wrinkled from sweat that they hurt.

He had called Jake and agreed to meet him here because of the view. They were on a hill overlooking the huge blaze in the distance. Firefighters were working their way through the flames as news choppers dipped in and out of the sky trying to beat each other for the most dramatic shot. The fire at the gas station had burned itself out almost before the fire department had the hydrants tapped. But the flames had leapt into the next block, chewing up buildings three and four at a time.

Raymond scanned the scorched block until he found what was left of the gas station in the cinders.

“There’s no ambulance,” he said. “And I don’t see the coroner’s van.”

Jake turned away from the fire, staring at him from the front seat.

Chapter 70

He could see his house. At least it looked like his house.

All the lights were on and people were scurrying in and out. Frank sunk to the ground, hidden in the darkness and trying to conserve his strength from behind a rhododendron across the street.

His feet hurt and his body ached. His clothes remained wet from the gasoline, clinging to him and stinging him as if caught in a nightmare swarm of a thousand bees. He needed to catch his breath and get away from all the bees.

He had been lucky. He knew that. He hadn’t been burned.

The explosion occurred just as he stumbled around the corner behind the gas station. He’d been cut by the flying debris and knocked unconscious. When he awoke from the heat of the firestorm, he found his body covered in shattered glass and a greasy black soot. The blaze seemed to be moving toward him as it worked through the building and rode the wind. He watched it, unable to move at first. He could see the fire eating the fog in the air. He stared at it blankly as if watching from a distance or seeing it on TV. When the greasy soot on his sleeve ignited from the sheer heat of the inferno, he brushed off the fire and hobbled away on wobbly legs.

His mind surfaced as he noticed a dog barking somewhere not so far away. He tried to focus. It wasn’t a bark, but more wild than that.

Buddha.

Frank turned back to the house, peering through the branches for another look. It was definitely his house, he decided. Three patrol cars were parked at the curb with their lights flashing. The front door stood wide open and he could see men in suits discussing something in his living room. When he looked in the driveway, he saw the coroner’s van parked beneath the trees.

Something frightful had happened. He looked past the house to his dog racing back and forth along the fence in the backyard. Then the coroners wheeled a gurney out the front door, lifting it over the porch steps and rolling it toward their van. The U.S. Attorney was with them, followed by Randolph and Grimes.

Frank’s eyes flicked back to the gurney, and he wondered who was inside the body bag. Even from a distance, the corpse appeared small and frail and maybe even feminine—his mind racing through the possibilities and skipping ahead until it hit the wall and time stopped.

It couldn’t be her. It couldn’t.

The coroners closed up the van and jumped in the front seat. Pulling out the drive, Frank watched the truck glide down the street, its lights fading into the big black nowhere. He turned back to the house—his house and the crime scene. Randolph and Grimes were getting into the back of a sedan. As the U.S. Attorney slid into the passenger seat, a suit with blond hair took the wheel.

The sedan made a U-turn, passing the rhododendron and vanishing around the corner.

Then Frank fled into the night, his mind clearing as the terror chased him. The terror all around.

Chapter 71

Racing down the sidewalk, Frank spotted the sedan parked across the street from Linda’s townhouse and darted into the neighbor’s yard. Through the trees he could see the blond man in the suit waiting with the car. The passenger side window was down and he could hear music playing over the radio, which struck Frank as odd given the circumstances. He couldn’t tell what time it was, but guessed that it had to be closer to dawn than midnight. It must have taken him the better part of an hour to get here on foot. It had been a grueling passage, his mind beating him up from the inside out until it reached a numb, blank space where the horror lived. He turned to the house and saw every window lighted. As he fought his way through the shrubbery, he saw the U.S. Attorney pacing in the living room. Randolph and Grimes were sitting on the couch. But they weren’t searching the place, he realized. They were waiting, and he found this odd, too.

And then Linda walked into the room.

Frank took a step closer, peering through the window. She looked frightened and upset but absolutely alive and breathing as she stepped into the living room in a pair of jeans and that black V-neck sweater he liked so much. He wondered if he had passed out. If what he was seeing might not be some kind of dream or vision. He had suffered a concussion. He’d seen the coroner at his house. Another body wheeled out in a Ziploc bag.

He rushed behind the house, passing through a small rose garden to the deck. He knew that Linda kept a spare key beneath a flower pot by the steps. When he lifted the pot, the key glistened at him and he grabbed it. He moved to the backdoor, sliding the key into the lock and easing the bolt aside. Then he inched open the door and slipped inside.

He listened, standing in the kitchen and hearing their voices from the living room. When they continued speaking, he eased the door shut and froze as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. His face had been blackened from the explosion, his hair singed in the fire. There was a nick on his chin, and another on his cheekbone. Carved into his forehead, a deep gash ran three inches long just missing his right eye. He looked gaunt and wasted, the smell of gasoline clinging to him like an aftershave with too much bloom.

“We’ve got a warrant for Frank Miles’s arrest,” the U.S. Attorney said in a grim voice from the other room.

Frank turned away from the mirror, looking toward the foyer when he heard Linda finally speak.

“Frank and I haven’t exactly been close over the past year.”

“That may or may not be true, Ms. Reynolds. But I spoke with your accountant and I know about the money. We’ve got a motive now.”

“What money?” she asked.

The U.S. Attorney didn’t answer. Frank wondered where the man was going and could tell by Linda’s tone of voice that she had been caught off guard as well. Then someone cleared their throat.

“May I have a glass of water?”

It was Grimes, and Linda was telling him how to find the kitchen.

Frank looked around the room. It was a full-sized kitchen with a dining area. He spotted the pantry and stepped around the corner. As he pressed himself against the wall, he glanced back and caught the blood on the floor where he’d just been standing. Then Grimes entered, looking for the sink and missing the blood as he crossed the room.

“Frank’s gonna make a lot of money as a result of his partner’s death, isn’t he?” the U.S. Attorney started in again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Linda said.

“Sure you do, Ms. Reynolds. Your media buy adds up to almost seventy-five million dollars. Who could forget that?”

Grimes took a glass from the dish rack and filled it with tap water. Frank could see the detective’s face reflecting in the window over the sink. Grimes seemed troubled, staring outside and thinking it over as the U.S. Attorney continued to grill Linda.

“Your accountant told us that the firm takes fifteen percent off the top. That’s about a eleven million, two hundred thousand.”

Grimes lowered the glass. He was gazing at something on the counter, and Frank thought that it might be the two photographs set in frames beside a bowl of fresh apples. Frank could see the photos clearly, standing just ten feet away. The first was a picture of Jack Kennedy. The president wore a golf shirt and sunglasses while aboard his sailboat. He had a smile on his face, big and bright like he owned the world. The second was a more recent shot. Linda and Jason Hardly had their arms around each other and were smiling like they’d staked out their piece of the world, too. But it wasn’t the pictures Grimes had his eye on. It was the pad and pen beside them. The detective seemed to grunt, stepping away from the sink and jotting something down. It looked to Frank like Grimes was doing the math as he listened to the U.S. Attorney in the living room.

“Eleven million, two hundred thousand dollars,” the U.S. Attorney repeated, probably shaking his head. “That’s a lot of money. The kind of money most people only dream about. With one partner gone, your accountant says that you split the pot not by three, but by only two. After your expenses are paid, he says that’s five million dollars each. Maybe even a couple hundred thousand more.”

They had him, Frank realized. The U.S. Attorney finally had a motive. It was a lie, of course—pure fiction. But Frank imagined that it was a story a grand jury would understand. Missing the blood on the floor, Grimes left the room like he understood it, too. Frank sat down at the kitchen table and listened to the U.S. Attorney lay out his case. Frank had killed his partner for the money, he was saying, and made it look like a robbery committed by a teenager. There had been a witness to the teenager’s killing, Alan Ingrams. Frank lied to his friend Reverend Neilmarker, using the pastor to help him locate the witness. Then Frank murdered Ingrams, too. But there was another witness, someone picked up on a DUI outside their office on the night of the killings. Ozzie Olson. Frank murdered Olson, made it look like a suicide, and then dragged Linda over to his office pretending to find the body.

They had him. Without embarrassing the Merdocks by introducing the affair or mentioning the sex shots Olson had taken. Frank had done it for the money.

“They argued a lot, didn’t they?” the U.S. Attorney said. “Woody and Frank didn’t like each other. Woody even went behind Frank’s back, hiring someone to snoop on his client.”

Frank suddenly realized who was in the body bag. Everyone involved except Doc Neilmarker was dead now. Because the pastor was a friend, anything he said on Frank’s behalf could easily be turned upside-down. The U.S. Attorney had put the puzzle together in his own way without any loose ends.

“You’ve twisted everything,” Linda said, her voice quiet like she might be breaking down.

“I guess I don’t have to remind you that you’re gonna profit, too.”

He was inferring that Linda might be involved. The U.S. Attorney had taken her to the edge of the cliff. Now he was letting her see what might happen if she fell.

“I don’t know where Frank is,” she said, her voice shaky but gaining strength. “And it’s late. I want you to leave.”

“I’m not finished,” the U.S. Attorney said, bullying her.

“Yes, you are. Unless you have a warrant, you are.”

“That could easily be arranged,” the U.S. Attorney said.

“Then arrange it,” Linda shot back at the man. “Now get out of my house. You heard me. Get out.”

No one said anything. After a long moment, Frank heard the three men cross the room to the foyer. The front door opened and closed. Frank checked the time on the microwave and saw sunlight streaming in the windows. Then Linda stepped into the kitchen. They didn’t connect at first. Startled by his appearance, she didn’t recognize him and he thought that she might even scream.

“It’s me, Linda. It’s me.”

She let out a gasp, her eyes moving over his face quickly.

“They found Eddie,” she said.

Frank nodded. “We need to get out of here.”

She glanced at the counter and noticed the pad that Grimes had been using to add up the money. “What’s this?” she asked.

She ripped the top sheet off and handed it to him. A chill rolled up his spine as he looked at it. Grimes hadn’t been doing the math or even jotting a stray thought down. Instead, he’d known that Frank was in the room all along and had left a note. It said to keep in touch and included the number to his cell phone.

Chapter 72

They were moving now, Frank wheeling Linda’s Explorer through the late morning traffic. He saw a 7-Eleven on the corner. When he started to pull into the lot, Linda sounded incredulous.

“What are you doing? We need lawyers, Frank. The meanest lawyers money can buy.”

“We need to think this through.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he said.

He pulled into a parking space and told her to get two coffees and a pack of cigarettes. She stared back at him, her green eyes burning. Then, without a word, she got out and hurried into the market.

Frank kept the engine running and looked through the window, watching her at the counter. Linda had faced off with the U.S. Attorney and stood her ground. She’d even kicked the man out of her house. When they were finally alone, she had helped Frank clean up, dressing his wounds quickly, even lovingly, and giving him a fresh shirt that he guessed belonged to Jason Hardly.

She swung the door open, tossing the cigarettes at him before she climbed in. Frank opened the pack and lit one, sipping coffee and hoping that the double dose of hot caffeine mixed with nicotine might revive him. He pulled back onto the street. He let a block go by, then another, watching her tug on her seatbelt and stew. Her eyes remained bright, everything about her, magnetic.

“Olson takes pictures of Merdock doing his girlfriend,” he said finally. “That’s where this starts, right?”

She didn’t say anything, but nodded grudgingly.

“Then the Merdocks make a mistake,” he said. “They think Woody has the pictures, so they kill him. Even worse, the cops make a mistake and arrest Olson for the murder.”

He could see her eyes going. She was chewing it over, though still refusing to speak to him.

“So what’s Olson thinking when he’s arrested?” he asked, sipping his coffee. “I’ll tell you what he’s thinking. The story’s on the front page and all over TV. The Merdocks have figured it out. Olson’s out in the open and he’s next.”

“He’s not next anymore, Frank. We are.”

“Come on, Linda. Olson’s read the papers and knows what happened to Woody and those two kids. He’s scared shitless. He hates me so much, I’m the last one he’d talk to. He’s not going to the cops because they think he killed Woody. So what’s he do? What would you do?”

She looked back at him anxiously and shook her head.

“He’s calling you but he can’t reach you—the hang ups, remember? You told me that someone had been calling you ever since Woody died. When I hit his redial button, the call went to your house. Olson’s gotta get the pictures to someone he thinks will do the right thing. The night he was murdered, he said he went to the post office. Why would he bring that up with Raymond holding a gun to his head?”

“Olson wanted you to know that he mailed them,” Linda said.

Frank nodded, remembering how Olson had told him that it was the wrong time to be alone. It was dangerous now. Olson needed to get rid of the pictures. He was probably trying to make a run for it when Raymond showed up instead.

“So who could Olson count on?” Frank asked. “Who would he send the pictures to? Who’s left?”

“Helen Pryor.”

Their eyes met. It had to be Helen. Frank glanced at the cell phone plugged into the cigarette lighter.

“It’s election day,” he said. “No one’s working. Call her and tell her to meet us at her office. We’re on our way.”

Linda grabbed the phone and flipped it open. As Frank gave her the number, he swerved into the next lane, making a sudden left and heading for Capitol Hill.

Chapter 73

Raymond looked past Jake from the backseat as Norman inched the Lincoln toward the corner. When his view cleared, he saw Frank and Linda hurrying into the Russell Building through a side entrance.

“Just like Jesus,” Jake said. “Back from the dead.”

More like a phoenix rising out of the ashes, Raymond thought to himself without saying anything.

After the fire department managed to contain the blaze, they had scoured the area block by block searching for Frank’s body. When they didn’t find a corpse, they checked his office and the house—one step ahead of the U.S. Attorney the whole way. Although they still hadn’t caught sight of him, they’d been following Linda’s SUV since it left her house. Now they finally had confirmation.

But why would they come here?

The Russell Building stood directly across the street from the Capitol. Raymond couldn’t help thinking that it was an odd place to go when you were on the run. And Frank was definitely on the run. Jake glanced at him and seemed disturbed by it, too.

They had reached an understanding. Sometime during the night as they gazed at the fire and Norman slept. Both he and Jake had slipped past reason. It was emotional now. Personal.

“What next,” Jake said.

Raymond shrugged. What next in a job that had gone to shit with what nexts? There was always the unknown factor when it came to Frank Miles. He wasn’t exactly the person Jake had first described, and Raymond continued to find it troubling. He thought about the gun he’d seen in Frank’s desk drawer the night he had murdered Woody. It was a big gun, a .45, not the weapon of choice for the faint of heart.

Jake got out of the car, saying that he’d be right back. Raymond watched him cross the street, continuing up the sidewalk to the main entrance of the Russell Building. The doors were locked, and Raymond could see Jake cupping his hands and peering through the glass into the lobby. After several minutes, he hustled back to the car and gave Raymond a hard look.

“Helen Pryor’s got an office in there,” he said, still thinking it over. “Her name’s on the building directory.”

Raymond didn’t know who Helen Pryor was. Besides, the sidewalks were empty and the building was obviously closed.

“She ran against Olson,” Jake added after a moment.

Raymond remembered seeing it on Geraldo Rivera’s cable TV show. Geraldo had recounted the whole story, playing Frank’s spot against Olson over and over again with delight. Before Frank had humiliated Olson, Olson and Helen Pryor had been friends.

Chapter 74

Files and papers littered Helen’s office as if an attorney worked here.

They started with what they found piled on her desk, working their way through the rest of the room as quickly as they could. Frank, Linda, and Helen searching for something Olson might have sent as if their lives depended on it. A manila envelope. A mailer from the post office. Anything that might contain the photographs Olson had taken of Merdock with his girlfriend. Every witness had been murdered. Olson’s photographs were the only thing left connecting Merdock to the victims.

“They’re not here,” Helen said. “And why would Ozzie send them to me? I don’t understand.”

Frank grimaced. “They’ve gotta be here.”

The senator’s chief of staff entered the room. She was blond and cute and in her late twenties. Frank had always had a good relationship with her. When he and Linda broke up, she had even made a play for him. But now Frank was spoiled goods. He’d lost his name, his business. Frank could feel the ice as she ignored him and approached Helen. He was valueless to her ambitions now, a Beltway bitch clawing her way to the top of the heap.

“There’s nothing up front,” she said in a voice laced with boredom. “Is it okay if I leave now?”

Helen nodded. “Thanks for opening up the office.”

The blonde gave Frank a vicious look and walked out. When the door closed, Frank turned back to Helen. They’d searched the entire office and Olson’s package wasn’t here. He was feeling panicky again, like they’d made a wrong turn somewhere and time was running out.

“What about the mail room?” he said. “Maybe it wasn’t delivered yet.”

“It’s election day, Frank. Everything’s closed.”

*          *          *

Raymond entered the side entrance of the Russell Building two steps ahead of Jake and Norman. The lobby was set up like an airport. Bags went on the conveyor belt to be x-rayed. The only way to the elevators was through the metal detector before the archway.

Raymond eyed the guard carefully. He was an older man, working alone on an off day. When he noticed them, he got out of his chair and stretched his legs and back like he’d been sitting for a long time. He appeared sleepy, most likely bored and glad to have some company.

Raymond stepped through the metal detector and the alarm started buzzing. The guard’s face lit up with concern. Raymond smiled and shrugged, pointing his gun at the man and watching the concern change to horror and fear. He pulled the trigger and the muzzle flashed. It was fast and clean. Two quick shots to the head and the guard’s eyes went blank. Raymond watched as the old man took a step back and staggered, then did a belly flop onto the tiled floor.

It was over, the gate open and purged.

They rushed through the metal detector toward the body. Jake dug into the guard’s pockets, fishing his keys out and tossing them to Norman. As Norman pulled away the guard’s jacket, the elevator pinged and all three of them turned. The doors opened and a young woman stepped out. She was a blonde and looked pissed off and in a hurry. She glanced at them as she trotted through the archway. When she noticed the guard’s body on the floor and saw the blood shooting out of his forehead like a broken water fountain, she stopped dead in her tracks and tried to scream but nothing came out.

*          *          *

Frank dragged a wooden bench down the hall, picked it up and heaved it through the mail room door. The glass shattered and Linda and Helen cringed. Reaching inside, Frank found the lock, kicked the broken glass away and pushed the door open.

The room was dark, the layout so antiquated that it felt like a tomb. Frank leapt across the counter and rushed over to the mail slots. The names of each senator were posted above the slots, each slot overflowing with undelivered mail. When he spotted Helen’s, he grabbed the pile and threw it down on the counter. Most of the envelopes were oversized and he sorted through them quickly. It was the third envelope from the bottom and he almost dropped it as his eyes locked on Olson’s name and return address.

He had the evidence in his hands. He ripped open the envelope. There was a DVD inside a paper sleeve, and he read the label.

Meet Mel Merdock.

They ran down the hall to the elevator, rushed inside and up to Helen’s office. As Frank moved around the desk and slipped the DVD into the computer, Linda and Helen pulled up chairs. The drive on the computer made a whirling sound. Within a few seconds an image appeared on the monitor without being cued.

It was a political spot, crudely modeled after the ad Frank had made against Olson. An image of Mel Merdock removing Beth Williams’s bra opened the piece. They were on a bed in their underwear, their faces so clear it almost looked as if they had been posing for Olson’s camera. As Frank watched, he couldn’t help noticing the woman’s obvious likeness to Juliana. Her hair was the same color and styled in exactly the same way. Their faces were almost a perfect match as well.

The image dissolved into another, the shots picking up speed to the point where Olson had achieved motion with still pictures. Merdock and Williams were naked now, grinding it out with Merdock on top. Only Merdock wasn’t kissing her or even holding her. Instead, he was pushing her and slapping her—then punching her with a closed fist. Merdock was assaulting the woman. Beating her.

Olson read the voice-over copy himself. The sound of his raspy drawl had a spooky feel about it, almost as if he was speaking to them from the other side.

OLSON’S VOICE:

Meet Mel Merdock, candidate for the U.S. Senate. This is where Merdock stands on women’s issues. Merdock says he SUPPORTS the Family Leave Act. He says he SUPPORTS laws barring sexual discrimination in the work place. He says he SUPPORTS stronger laws protecting women from spousal abuse and domestic violence. He even says he SUPPORTS a woman’s right to choose. Mel Merdock says that he supports women. Sure he does. Mel Merdock should NOT be elected to the U.S. Senate. On Tuesday, you can make the difference. Send Mel Merdock to jail.

As the spot ended, Merdock punched the girl in the face and her head snapped back. Frank realized that she had been wearing a wig for Merdock. Beneath the dark hair that mimicked Juliana was a blonde with a battered face. The girl looked back in terror as Merdock tossed the wig on the floor and struck her again. When Merdock seemed to have had enough, he climbed off the bed and started shouting at her, probably blaming her for the rape and beating. Miraculously, the girl lifted her head slightly and turned toward the door. And that’s the way Olson left it. A close-up of Beth Williams’s bruised face, a still life, fading to black.

No one said anything. No one moved.

Frank looked at Linda and Helen staring at the monitor, everyone stunned. As he turned away, he thought about what Randolph had said after Olson’s murder. The motive usually matches the crime, Frank. The motive matches the crime. Frank remembered Eddie and Mario telling him that Beth Williams couldn’t be located and had probably returned to Dallas to shoot another TV ad. But that didn’t seem very likely, not with all those bruises on her face. When he looked back at the monitor, the fog finally lifted and he felt another hard wave of anger roll through his gut.

Olson had thought that he’d taken photographs of Merdock beating up his girlfriend. He’d documented the motive for the murders without guessing what the pictures really meant.

Merdock had killed her. And the motive finally matched the crime.

Linda and Helen began to stir, perhaps guessing what Frank was thinking. Ejecting the DVD from the computer, he returned the disk to its paper sleeve and slipped it into his shirt pocket.

“The president called me yesterday,” Helen whispered. “It was after Merdock’s press conference, Frank. I want you to know that I didn’t take the call.”

He nodded at her quietly. Senator Helen Pryor was as elegant a person as Frank had ever met. Another moment passed before he turned back to Linda.

“Let’s go find Randolph,” he said.

Chapter 75

As they left Helen’s office, Frank heard the senator close the door behind them and turn the lock. He looked at Linda walking beside him and could tell that she wasn’t taking it very well. She seemed dazed, numb, lost inside herself. When they turned the corner, Frank looked ahead and noticed an old man pushing a squeaky cart past the elevator. Buckets of ice were stacked on his cart, and the old man was humming a tune. They finally reached the elevator and Frank hit the button. While they waited, he watched the old man unlock a door and vanish inside a senator’s office with a bucket of ice. The office was dark. No one was there or would be until tomorrow.

The elevator arrived. Frank followed Linda inside, pressing the button to the ground floor just as doors closed. Watching ice being delivered to empty offices seemed so odd. Almost eerie.

They reached the first floor and the doors sprung open. As they passed through the lobby, Frank looked for the guard but didn’t see him. When he gave the door a push, it wouldn’t budge. Linda met his eyes and appeared spooked. He tried the door again. They were locked in.

“We need to get out of here,” she said quietly.

Frank turned back to the lobby. He could hear a noise. A clicking sound that seemed to be coming from the x-ray machine. The conveyor belt would move an inch forward, then reset with a click and move an inch back. The machine was jammed. Frank’s eyes rose to the monitor, then froze as he struggled to get a grip on what he was seeing. Two human skeletons were embracing each other on the monitor. He stepped closer in a rush just to make sure, spotting a man’s foot caught in the mouth of the x-ray machine. When he freed it, the conveyor belt started moving again.

He heard Linda gasp and felt his body shudder as the two dead bodies rolled out. He could see Helen Pryor’s chief of staff lying on top of the guard with her legs straddling the man’s thighs. Blood was oozing out of the holes in her head and dripping onto the guard’s haggard face. Their eyes were open and bulging out of their sockets. Their skin looked discolored, like they’d been burned or even cooked by too many x-rays.

Frank grabbed Linda’s hand and started running down the hall. As they hit the stairway heading for the basement, he heard a door slam above them and saw Raymond and Jake leaping down the steps two at a time. Both of them were carrying guns.

Frank tightened his grip on Linda as they skidded into the basement hall. They passed the cafeteria, the news stand. No one was around, everything closed. Beneath Capitol Hill, the government had literally dug its heels into the ground. There were miles of tunnels running from one building to the next. Frank knew that they were in a corridor below street level, the subway station to the Capitol just ahead. But as they reached the escalators, a series of gunshots rang out from behind them and the wall of glass doors evaporated before their eyes. Frank shielded Linda’s face as best he could, the shattered glass exploding in the air and raining down on them like hail. But they couldn’t stop, couldn’t wait, rushing through the storm and down the escalator to the platform below.

A subway car sat before them with its lights out. It was an open car that looked more like a tour ride at Universal Studios. It ran for all of about fifty yards to the Capitol at the other end of the tracks. It looked ridiculous and embarrassing and must have cost a fortune to build. To the right, a wide corridor followed the path of the tracks for those in government who had the strength to walk and talk at the same time.

Frank and Linda bolted down the corridor. As they rounded the curve and hit the steps on the other side, Frank could hear the faraway sound of Raymond and Jake slipping on the shattered glass. Gunshots echoed through the tunnel, louder than before, the rounds knocking out chunks of the wall and spraying them with debris.

Frank and Linda pushed through another set of doors, hitting the main artery beneath the building. It was darker here, and the path swept in a huge arc in both directions. Paintings hung from the walls like an art gallery. If this had been a normal working day, hundreds of people would have been walking back and forth between the Capitol and their offices.

They sprinted to the left, side by side, with Frank listening to the sound of Linda breathing. She had a steady rhythm going. When they hit the stairs, they raced to the top, made a sharp right and found themselves in a narrow passageway. They were running past walls of polished granite now. The lights were out and it was hard to see. Slowing down, Frank could feel his heart thumping in his chest, the heat catching up to him in waves. His eyes stung and he tried to wipe the sweat away. Then the passageway came to a sudden end.

“I made a mistake,” he said between deep breaths. “We should’ve turned the other way.”

There were three doors set into the far wall, each of them locked as Linda checked them. Then Frank spotted a small elevator behind a series of columns and hit the button. Nothing happened at first and he pressed his ear to the doors.

He looked at Linda as he listened. Her eyes were bright and alive and he could see the terror in them. He hammered his fist into the button again. Ten seconds later, he heard the sound of the cables snap into motion. They were moving slowly, casually, stretching quietly at their own speed as the sound of footsteps could be heard racing up the steps and starting down the passageway.

They were closing in on them. The elevator wouldn’t make it in time.

He looked around. The base of the columns stepped up to a ledge ten feet off the ground. Plants adorned each step, including the ledge. As Frank and Linda climbed up, shielding themselves behind the column, Frank gazed down at the lobby below. It wasn’t much of a hiding place, and the footsteps were on top of them now.

Frank inched forward and saw Raymond slinking into the lobby with his gun up and ready. He was alone. He and Jake had probably split up when they found the tunnel running in both directions.

Raymond turned, carefully scanning the entire lobby. He tried the doors first, found them locked and moved toward the columns silently. He was right below them when he noticed the elevator and stopped. The button on the wall remained lighted. Frank could see him staring at it and thinking it over. Obviously, someone had been here and pressed the button. A bead of sweat dripped down Frank’s cheek and off his chin onto the floor beside Raymond’s shoe.

He glanced over at Linda. They were in a bad place. This wasn’t working anymore.

He leapt into the air, dropping onto Raymond with all his weight. The gun fired, the noise deafening, then skidded across the tiles. Raymond scrambled to his feet, his eyes locked on Frank’s with the gun on the floor between them. The elevator finally arrived. The doors opened, polluting the moment with Muzak.

Raymond smiled, cocky. But Frank could see it in his face. Just the hint of pain. A trace of doubt and uncertainty. Raymond had been surprised by Frank and taken a heavy blow to his shoulders and back.

Frank went for the gun.

He grabbed it, pointed it, pulled the trigger three times. The muzzle flashed. The roar bouncing off the walls and blood splattering all over Frank’s face. As Raymond fell on top of him, Frank could see the hole in the man’s cheek.

Linda screamed, muscling Raymond’s body off him and kicking it. It was still and lifeless, and by the grace of God, his eyes were closed. The sound of the gunshots dissipated and Frank began to hear footsteps racing toward them. Pushing Raymond’s body off his legs, he jumped to his feet and pulled Linda into the elevator.

His eyes danced over the panel. There were only two choices. Frank slammed his palm against the top button. Nothing happened and he hit the button again and again just as Jake and Norman ran into the lobby and turned toward them.

Frank raised the gun and both men flinched as he pulled the trigger. The gun clicked and he pulled the trigger again until he realized that the mag was empty. He saw the guns in Jake and Norman’s hands, the two men smiling at him. Then the elevator doors closed and Frank and Linda were lifted into the air.

He gathered Linda into his arms as the sound of gunshots blasting below their feet overtook the Muzak. He buried his head in her hair, concentrating on the smell of her skin at the base of her neck. He was trying to hold on to it. Remember it. After the gunshots faded, he could hear the elevator creaking and banging against the sides of the narrow shaft in time to a Bob Dylan song playing over a speaker on the panel. The melody had been bastardized, the lyrics removed.

The doors opened. When they stepped out into the richly tiled hall, Frank realized where they were and that he’d made a terrible mistake. They had run in the wrong direction after climbing the stairs. They were in a private chamber of the Capitol which contained hideaway offices for the congressional elite. Only the dome was above them now.

The elevator doors closed before Frank could stop them.

“There’s got to be another way down from here,” Linda said.

Frank shook his head. “There’s no way down. Not unless you’ve got a set of keys.”

He opened the heavy steel door leading to the dome. Linda gazed into the darkness a moment before following him inside. Then he slammed the door shut, jamming the hasp lock with Raymond’s empty gun.

They were standing in a narrow crevice between the cast-iron dome seen on the outside of the Capitol and the interior dome that served as the building’s ceiling. It was hot and dirty and claustrophobic, the air as dead as an attic.

Frank’s eyes followed the series of catwalks and open steel stairways leading up to the observation deck at the top of the building. Small steel plates were set into the interior wall every ten feet or so and followed the steps to the top. The plates opened and closed and provided the police and secret service with a bird’s-eye view of the Capitol’s rotunda before the invention of closed-circuit TV.

Frank had actually made the climb to the top once before. It was more than fifteen years ago and had been difficult to arrange. No one was allowed into the dome unless they could get a member of Congress to make the climb with them. It was a long way up to the top. Not many people in Congress had the time or interest in becoming a tour guide.

Frank glanced back at Linda. The clasp on the door’s lock wouldn’t hold off Jake and Norman for very long. If they started up the open set of stairs, Jake would have a clear shot at them. Then he noticed a series of windows on the other side of a huge air shaft encircling the dome. He hadn’t seen them at first because a sheet of plywood was leaning behind the first set of stairs.

Linda must have been thinking the same thing he was and broke for the stairs before he could say anything. They pulled the plywood away, ducked beneath the catwalk and looked outside.

The windows provided a view of the flat roof at the base of the dome. The sun had set, the roof lit up with glaring spotlights. Frank checked for a latch and hinges but couldn’t find any. The window was sealed, closing them in. When he heard Jake and Norman throwing their weight into the door behind them, he motioned Linda out of the way and kicked through the glass.

A sudden blast of cool air hit their faces, whistling past them as they climbed outside and started across the roof. The glare from the huge lights was horrific. Even so, within a few minutes it became clear that they were out of options. There was no way down. Then Frank turned and looked at the huge cast-iron dome before them, magnificent against the night sky. Steps had been molded into the south side of the dome, rising to the very top.

Frank pulled Linda toward him and met her eyes. It was a long way up without a handrail.

“Can you make it?” he asked.

She looked back at him, her teeth clenched and her nostrils flared. Then she grabbed hold of the first step and started up the dome with Frank following behind.

The steps were slippery, the climb, steep. They were halfway up when Frank heard voices from the roof below. Jake and Norman had found the window and were searching the roof through all the glare. When Jake finally looked up, he spotted them.

Frank missed a step, grabbing hold of it and starting up again. He saw Jake racing up the steps and laughing as he closed in on them.

In spite of the adrenalin rushing through his body, Frank could feel himself slowing down. His lungs were smoked out. His chest had tightened up, his legs getting heavier. He’d been smoking a pack and a half of cigarettes every day for three weeks. Thirty cigarettes a day. Two hundred and ten cigarettes a week. Six hundred and thirty since he weakened and gave into the nicotine less than a month ago.

He reached the top of the steps, crawling with Linda along the dome and trying not to look at the sharp slope down. There was a steady breeze with strong gusts, the feeling of height overwhelming as they stood up. Frank saw the observation deck ten feet above them. If they could reach the top and climb over the wall—if the door was unlocked—then they could escape by running back down the stairs.

But then time ran out. Frank heard Jake and turned to see him rising to his feet behind them. His eyes had an odd glow about them and he sneered at Frank as he drew his pistol from his waistband and cleared his throat.

“It’s not a dog-eat-dog world anymore,” he said. “Everything’s changed now. It’s rat-eat-rat, big shot. Winner takes all.”

A moment passed with Jake’s finger tickling the trigger on the semi-automatic. When he turned toward Linda and pointed the gun at her, the world went black and Frank heard himself shouting. He dove on Jake, grabbing him by the shoulders and knocking him down onto the cast-iron dome. They landed hard and scary, with Jake’s face taking the weight of their fall as they slid toward the edge out of control. The cast-iron felt cold and Frank pawed at its slippery surface until they finally managed to stop. He could feel Jake’s body wriggling beneath him. He could see him pulling the gun free and struggling to point the muzzle at his chest.

Frank’s hand closed around the barrel. He saw blood spewing from Jake’s nose and guessed that it was broken. As Frank struggled for control of the gun, he reached out with his free hand and slammed it into Jake’s nose. Jake let out a shriek and his body buckled. When Frank noticed a flash, he turned and saw Linda striking Jake’s wrist.

The gun popped out, sliding down the dome into the void below. Frank released the pressure on Jake’s nose and held him down until he became still. Without a gun it was over, and Frank let go of the man and backed away.

Jake stared at him for several moments without moving, almost as if he didn’t know what to do. As he started to get up, he slipped and lost his balance. A moment passed, the panic blooming in his eyes and across his face. Frank lunged forward and caught his sleeve. He could see the edge. They were almost on it.

“My hand,” Frank said. “Take my hand.”

Jake made a quick grab for Frank’s hand, but missed, both men sliding another two feet toward the edge. Jake’s sleeve ripped. He looked at Frank and then lowered his eyes. Frank followed his gaze to his shirt pocket and the DVD labeled Meet Mel Merdock.

“Grab my hand,” Frank shouted at him.

Jake reached out, pulling his sleeve free as his fingers dug into Frank’s pocket and snatched the disk. He smiled as he gazed at it. But then his body arched back and dropped. He clawed at the dome’s glassy surface with his free hand, pumping his legs hopelessly until gravity had its way with him and he vanished over the side. His scream was hideous. The sound of his body bouncing off the roof and hitting the ground below even worse.

Frank and Linda traded looks. After a long stretch of silence, they worked their way back to the steps and started down. But as the dome straightened out, Frank saw Norman halfway up, blocking their way and glaring at him.

“I don’t like heights,” Norman said in a weak voice.

Frank continued down the steps until he reached Merdock’s bodyguard. The thick-necked man clung to the narrow steps, appeared panic stricken and started to shriek.

“What are you gonna do? What are you gonna do? Where’s Jake?”

“He took the short cut,” Frank said. “Now climb down.”

“But I can’t. I can’t. Please. I won’t bother you. I swear I won’t. You’ve got to get me out of this.”

Frank looked at him without sympathy. He pulled Norman aside, reaching beneath the man’s jacket for his gun. After he checked the mag, Frank shoved the pistol beneath his belt and let Linda pass them. Once she was safe, he pushed Norman back into the steps and followed her down.

Chapter 76

It was beginning to rain.

They found Jake’s body lying in a pool of blood off the rear terrace. Jake had made a head-first landing without wings. Frank rolled the mangled body over, searching frantically for the disk. The paper sleeve was blood stained and he picked it up. Opening it carefully, he held it to the light and peered inside. Then he shook the pieces of broken plastic onto his palm and stared at them.

The disk had been crushed. The evidence destroyed.

“It’s over,” Linda whispered. “They’ve won. We need lawyers now.”

Someone shouted at them from the rooftop. Frank looked up and saw the U.S. Attorney standing with ten men in suits and a handful of police in uniforms. The suit with blond hair stood beside the U.S. Attorney with his gun drawn. Frank looked back at the U.S. Attorney. He couldn’t make out what he was saying. He couldn’t understand why he was yelling. The suit even fired a shot at them. He felt Linda give his hand a tug, pulling him away from Jake’s body. They were running. Fleeing down the steps and across the lawn.

Distant sirens could be heard, closing in on the district.

After three blocks, Frank looked back and saw the U.S. Attorney and his men running off the lawn into the street. Linda pulled him around the corner. They found a crowded bar in the middle of the block and ducked inside. The place was dark and people were packed into the narrow space wall-to-wall. Two TVs were mounted at either end of the bar, broadcasting election night returns. It was a real Beltway crowd with everyone shouting over each other or screaming into their cell phones.

No one noticed them. No one even turned. Not even the bartender, whom Frank guessed would recognize them in spite of their appearance.

Hustling their way into the crowd, they began working toward the back door on the other side of the restrooms. Frank knew the door led to an alley. Across the alley, the real estate was mostly residential and they would be off the streets. When they reached the middle of the room, Frank turned back and saw someone enter the bar. He pushed a man’s head aside and looked past it. It was the suit with the gun, eyeing each face in the room one by one. The U.S. Attorney stood right behind him.

Linda grabbed Frank’s hand, shoving her way through all the people. With the back door within sight, they inched forward and glanced at the TV. It was a live news feed—the president walking out of a Georgetown restaurant with Stewart Brown.

“Mr. President,” the reporter said. “Our exit polls show that you’ve won a majority in the Senate tonight. It looks like a big win for Merdock in Virginia. What’s your reaction to the kind of money he spent?”

The president flashed a smile, the one he only used in front of a TV camera.

“I’m not sure what Mr. Merdock spent,” the president said. “I don’t know him that well and haven’t followed his race that closely. But I’m very pleased about taking the Senate, I can tell you that.”

When the reporter tried to get a second question in, the president shook him off with another phony smile and got into his limousine with Brown. From what Frank could tell, Mel Merdock had won the election and the president and Stewart Brown were pleased with themselves.

The rage started again. It hit Frank like a shock wave, tumbling through his body from head to toe and trying to break out of his chest. Mel Merdock was a senator now.

They reached the door and stepped into the alley. As the door closed, he looked at Linda. Her hair was wet. There was a bruise on her chin. Another below her eye. Then his mind drifted back to the moment Jake had pointed his gun at her. He couldn’t remember whether Jake had fired the gun or not. He looked at her body carefully, examining every inch. When he didn’t see any blood, he double checked the ground beneath her and looked back at her face.

Chapter 77

“I’m gonna be late, honey. Better cancel that dinner reservation and see if you can make it for tomorrow night.”

It was a voice, a male voice, babbling in the background like some kind of idiot.

“There’s been a shooting at the Capitol,” the man went on. “Some guy went nuts and shot the place up with his girlfriend. We’ve got four bodies here and the boss says I’ve gotta stay.”

The man sounded like a robot, his voice droning on and on. He hated listening to the voice. He hated everything about it.

“Yeah, we know who did it. That lunatic in the papers. That political consultant the president fired. The boss says he wants to get things cleaned up in a hurry.”

Raymond opened his eyes. The overhead lights were on and he squinted at the brightness of the lobby. He saw a G-man with his back turned, leaning his shoulder against the wall and talking into a cell phone like he was on a fucking coffee break. He was saying something about a man being stuck on the Capitol dome they couldn’t get down. A senator named Helen Pryor had found her chief of staff murdered with a guard and had called the police.

Raymond tried to remember what had happened. He’d seen Frank reach the gun first. After that, everything went fuzzy. He must have been unconscious, but he wasn’t now. His eyes slid across the polished floor. When he saw the blood, he concentrated on his pulse rate and tried to slow it down. He’d been hit and would need time. Before trying to move he made a mental assessment of the damage. He felt a stinging sensation in his left cheek. A dull pain taking over his right shoulder. His upper left leg was beginning to go numb. The rest of his body felt weak, almost as if it were in a deep sleep.

His eyes moved back to the G-man and he sat up, wondering if he might not be dead. He could feel the blood caked on his face and he brushed it away from his eyes. Lifting his pant leg, he pulled the ten-inch blade out of its sheath and stood up. He felt dizzy, weak. He waited a moment and it seemed to pass. Then he inched his way toward the G-man, still on the phone with his back turned. Raymond knew that his survival depended on preserving his strength. He had to make this quick and get out of here. Gripping the knife with both hands at his waist, he turned the blade upward and stopped. He was close. Within an inch or two, thinking himself a dragon and letting his fiery breath drift across the back of the G-man’s neck.

Time to wake up, shithead, and earn your pay.

The G-man suddenly stopped talking and turned. He let out a gasp and dropped the phone, the horror working over his face as if taking massive jolts of electricity. Raymond smiled at him through all the blood on his face, thrusting the knife upward. It was a gut shot, just beneath the ribs and driving toward the heart. The G-man’s body shuddered and then stiffened, flopping onto the floor like a dead cherry tree.

Raymond thought of yelling “timber,” but didn’t. Instead, he picked up the cell phone and listened to the woman on the other end of the line. She sounded hysterical. He closed the phone and slipped it into his pocket. When he noticed the blood dripping off his hand, he took a closer look at the gunshot wounds in his shoulder and leg. If he didn’t do something, he’d never make it out of the building.

Wrapping himself in the G-man’s suit jacket, he pulled it over his shoulder wound and tied the arms into a tight knot across his chest. Then he used his knife to strip away a piece of the dead G-man’s pants. As he lashed the material over his leg wound and noticed the bleeding slow down, he spotted the gun strapped to the G-man’s shoulder.

Raymond primed the gun and started down the hall, surprised that it was a Glock rather than the Beretta he’d expected. He took stock of his chances, deciding to retrace his steps into the tunnels and make his exit as far away from the Capitol building as he could. G-men worked in packs like dogs. It was a safe bet that there were more of them around.

The walk was long and grueling, much of the time spent in a dream-like trance with the G-man’s cell phone ringing in his pants like a vibrator. Eventually the ringing stopped and he passed through a door, finding himself outside in the rain.

He moved away from the building, trying to stay focused. Across the street, the police had swarmed the Capitol. When he turned away, he saw a cab approaching and noticed Union Station just ahead. He waved the cab down and it stopped. Opening the door, he climbed in leading his way with the Glock. The cabby’s eyes lit up and went nuts. Raymond waved the gun at him and said he wanted to go to the mall.

It was a fast ride with lots of bumps in it—sirens and flashing lights streaming by in a jumbled blur. The gun felt like it was gaining weight. Propping his wrist on the back of the front seat, he kept the Glock pointed at the cabby’s head.

The mall. He had to get to his car at the mall.

Raymond checked his shoulder wound. The G-man’s suit jacket was soaked through. Raymond couldn’t tell if it was blood or just wet from the rain. The pain had lost its edge. He guessed that this wasn’t a good sign. When he sat back and looked into the rearview mirror, he caught the cabby staring at him as if a bird of prey. This didn’t seem like a good sign either.

They pulled into the garage and Raymond told the cabby to follow the ramp down to the next level where he would find pictures of bears stenciled on the walls. The cabby gave him a dirty look. As the cab breezed by his Honda, he shouted at the man to stop. He sat there for a minute or two, gazing at his car and gathering his strength. He looked up and down the aisle and didn’t see anyone. Then he managed to get the door open and crawl out.

He could hear tires screeching. He staggered over to his car and leaned against the trunk, watching the cabby escape up the ramp. Fumbling with his keys, he got past the lock and behind the wheel. As he turned the key in the ignition, he felt the gun slip out of his hand but left it on the floor. Reaching beneath the seat, he slid out his audio book and gazed at the cover. He needed something to listen to on the drive home. He pulled out tape 6, his absolute favorite in the series, and hit FAST-FORWARD until he reached side 2.

Making a killing without feeling guilty.

It’s your big day.

Welcome to the winner’s circle.

Raymond adjusted the volume. The words felt familiar and soothing. The sound of the author’s voice and what he was saying. When Raymond’s eyes drifted to his lap, he realized that he was bleeding out and looked away. Time was slowing down, the world through his windshield growing darker. He heard doors opening and the sound of voices. A woman was just stepping into the garage from the mall with her young daughter. They were dressed in bright colors and seemed to have a glow about them as they carried their packages down the aisle. Raymond knew when the woman spotted him and saw the bullet hole in his face. Her smile dropped out and she reddened with fear, grabbing her daughter’s hand and rushing to get into their car two spaces away. It was a Volvo wagon speeding off. The same model Raymond had planned on giving his wife for Christmas. After they were gone, Raymond settled into his seat and turned back to the door. He could see the shops through the glass. He was on his way home now, and he wondered if he had time to buy his wife a small gift.

Chapter 78

Frank pushed the doors open, crashing Merdock’s election night party on campus with the gun stashed in his belt—all roughed up with death in his eyes. He could see Merdock on stage under a spotlight before the drawn curtain, alone like an easy target.

The theater had gone through a makeover since the debate just a few days ago. The house lights were down, the room packed with cheering people, fifteen TV cameras lined up in a neat row, and a live band set off to the side. Huge monitors with Merdock’s smiling face hung from the ceiling, towering above all the political crazies who laughed and chanted Merdock’s name in the gloom.

Merdock gripped a microphone in his hand and shouted, “Hey, everybody! We did it!”

Frank’s eardrums vibrated, the cheers deafening. When a man wearing twenty campaign buttons gave him a funny look, Frank pushed him aside and disappeared into the crowd. Through the faces he could see Merdock eating it up and still shouting into the mike.

“Hey, everybody! We really did it!”

Frank noticed three old women crying in happiness as they gazed at Merdock standing over them. Frank looked around, but didn’t see Juliana. He turned away, bulldozing more bodies out of his way until he reached the exit and stepped into the hall. As he moved down the steps into the passageway, he noticed that he couldn’t feel his legs or feet any more. His heart was beating in his ears and he had a horrible churning in his stomach. Nothing mattered except wiping the slate clean, getting rid of his mistake. He saw the stairs leading up to the stage, that red light blinking on the wall. He thought about what Merdock’s victory had cost him. His business and reputation, maybe even his freedom. His best friend’s life. And what about Eddie and Olson? Ingrams and Stockwell? Helen Pryor’s chief of staff and the guard? Everyone dead—the body count rising like a flood tide just so that Mel Merdock could be a fucking U.S. Senator.

The dressing rooms were dark. He felt for the gun at his waist and pulled his hand away as he rose up the stairs. When he reached the top step, his zombie eyes moved to center stage. A TV was set before a coffee table and five empty chairs. Behind the TV, the curtain was drawn with Merdock’s gigantic silhouette caught in the spotlight and raking the material from the other side. Frank took it in without emotion, guessing this was as good a vision of hell as he had ever seen.

And then he saw her. Juliana.

She was on the other side of the stage having her picture taken with a beaming man in a plaid sport jacket. Although the photographer’s back was turned and Frank couldn’t see his face, he could tell there was something wrong with the shot. After a moment, the photographer pulled a Merdock campaign button out of his pocket and handed it to Juliana. She smiled and nodded, pinning the button to her dress. The camera flashed and everyone laughed. When it was over, the photographer walked the beaming man around the curtain and Juliana was alone.

She crossed to center stage, watching Merdock play to the crowd on the television. She must have felt Frank’s presence—his dead-man stare—because she turned and looked directly at him. She took in his appearance. His bloodstained shirt and khakis, ripped and frayed and still wet from the rain. The cuts and scratches on his face and hands. His disheveled hair. He could tell that she found him amusing. She was victorious, the triumphant puppeteer.

“You look beaten, Frank. You need to learn how to take it with style. Winning isn’t everything, you know.”

He held it all in. He watched her turn back to the monitor—Merdock waving at the stupid crowd.

“I want to say something,” Merdock shouted into the mike. “Please... thank you... I have something I’d like to say...”

Frank poured the shattered DVD onto the coffee table, Olson’s pictures and the evidence against Merdock reduced to small pieces of useless plastic glistening under the stage lights.

“It looks broken,” she said. “What is it?”

“What you’ve been looking for.”

Her eyes rose from the table slowly. “Did you get a chance to look at it, Frank?”

He nodded.

“By the way,” she said. “The U.S. Attorney called. He’s looking for you and said you might stop by. Something about you murdering four more people at the Capitol and now eyewitnesses are involved.”

“You think me going down will work, Juliana?”

“It’s a start,” she said.

She noticed the gun. She stepped closer, taking another look at his appearance with her wheels turning.

“I’m wondering if it’s safe to talk to you,” she said, pulling his shirt away from his pants. “You’re not trying to pull anything, are you?”

He didn’t answer. He stood before her in ruin, letting her run her hands over his chest and around his back. She bent down, feeling her way up his pant legs until she reached his crotch. Her hands lingered there, feeling him with her eyes fixed on the gun.

“Is this really how you want to be remembered?” she said.

He didn’t answer, his mouth dry. Besides, he wasn’t wearing a fucking wire.

“You smell like a car mechanic,” she said, dropping her hands finally. “You’re all used up, Frank.”

He watched her turn back to the TV. Merdock was yelling into his mike again. Something about promises and how he planned on keeping them. The crowd was going crazy. The band played Happy Days Are Here Again.

“Let me guess,” Frank said in voice devoid of life or emotion. “Your husband has a problem with women.”

“He’s weak. I told you that before.”

Frank watched her dig into her bag and pull out a cigarette.

“He murdered Beth Williams,” Frank said. “That’s what this was about. That’s what Olson didn’t know. It wasn’t about the affair, or that your husband beats women. He killed her.”

“It was an accident,” she said. “Have you got a lighter? I know you smoke, Frank. I could smell it on your clothes the night you took me to dinner. I liked that night. I liked it a lot.”

He struck his lighter and she leaned into the flame. He watched as she noticed his hand trembling, then saw her smile and steady it with her own.

“You knew about the affair?” he asked.

“Women like that give Mel the impression that he’s powerful and in control. He likes feeling powerful. He likes to think he’s in control. It was an accident. He broke her neck, Frank.”

“I think you’ve missed something, Juliana. Something important. Mel dressed her up to look like you. From what I saw, he got off by punching her in the face.”

It was clear the idea had never occurred to her. She smiled as she considered it.

“He didn’t mean to do it,” she said finally. “Things got out of hand. He lost control. He panicked, that’s all.”

“So you hired Raymond to clean it up.”

She had a faraway look going and smiled again. “Someone was threatening us with the pictures. Someone was blackmailing us and holding us hostage. Mel saw your partner outside the house. We thought it was him. We couldn’t be sure how much he knew.”

“Maybe it was the affair. Maybe the beatings or even the murder. What about Olson?”

“We made a mistake. It turned out to be Olson. He hated you, Frank. I should’ve seen it sooner, but it worked out in the end.”

She was gloating over their good fortune. Frank took a step closer.

“How much did you pay Raymond, Juliana?”

“Is it important?”

“What about the U.S. Attorney?”

She smiled confidently. “He’s greedy. He wanted more.”

Leftover images from the debate surfaced—Juliana in the dressing room with Stewart Brown. He could see her taking off her clothes and opening the slob’s pants.

“What about Brown?” he said. “Did you pay him off, or were you doing him for free?”

Her eyes stirred. She didn’t answer the question, but at least her smile was gone.

“Where’s the girl’s body?” Frank asked.

“Somewhere near the water, I think. Somewhere far away. What difference does it make now?”

His eyes drifted from the campaign button pinned to her dress to Mel Merdock’s silhouette on the curtain towering above them. Juliana had beaten him. She laughed and he could feel her hand on his shoulder, her lips kissing his neck.

“Listen to them cheering,” she said. “All those people, Frank. There’s no amount of money that can match that. There’s not even a drug.”

He turned around and looked at her eyes. They were shiny and glassy and he thought he could see her madness smoldering in them. When he glanced at the monitor, he noticed Merdock walking off stage. Ten cops were helping him through the crowd to the lobby as he waved, laughed, and shook everybody’s hand.

“They’re giving us an escort, Frank. It’s too bad you lost your business. You lost everything, right? When the U.S. Attorney gets here, you’ll spend the rest of your life in jail.”

He didn’t move, taking the hit without reacting. He stood there like a dead man again.

Juliana laughed at him. She dropped the cigarette, grinding it out with her toe. Then she reached inside her bag, used a breath spray, and turned to him for one last look.

“It’s too bad you turned on me, Frank. We could’ve had some fun.”

She parted the curtain and walked out.

Frank adjusted the gun in his pants, following her off the stage and through the crowd into the theater. The chanting was louder than ever as Merdock disappeared into the lobby. Through the darkness Frank could see the U.S. Attorney and ten men shoving their way toward him from the other side of the room. It was a big room and Frank took comfort in knowing that they were too late. Way too late.

He turned back to Juliana, watching her pass all the smiling faces, the outstretched hands, the power and joy washing over her. He followed her into the lobby, people wall-to-wall. Merdock stood just ahead of them with the cops clearing a path to the door. When Merdock turned around and saw them, he became nervous, looking away from Frank’s dazed stare and smiling at Juliana as she stepped forward. She put her arms around her husband and they kissed. They were together now, both of them relieved.

Linda pushed her way through the crowd, closing her hands around Frank’s arm just as Juliana and Merdock stepped through the front door.

“Let it go,” Linda said. “Let it go.”

Frank looked at her but said nothing. They walked outside and found Merdock and Juliana standing before a stretch limousine, waving at a sea of faces chanting their name. Thousands of people were waving back at them in the darkness, lighting matches and candles. The police were even providing a motorcycle escort.

Someone grabbed Frank, quickly ushering him down the steps into the parking lot beside a van. When Frank looked up, he saw Randolph and Grimes shaking their heads at him. Randolph spotted the gun in Frank’s belt and slipped it into his suit jacket. Then the photographer who had taken Juliana’s picture with the beaming man in the plaid sport jacket ran over. It was Bobby, the photographer Frank had met at the president’s fund-raiser.

Randolph tapped on the van’s sliding door and Dick Zain opened up wearing a set of headphones. He was the best bug man in the business and had swept Frank’s office for years.

“You get what you needed?” Frank asked.

Dick Zain laughed. “She’s still wearing the fucking thing!”

“We’re still rolling,” Randolph said. “We got it loud and clear. You okay?”

Frank nodded, picking up Juliana’s voice from a small speaker by the recorder.

It had been Randolph’s idea of hiding the bug in the campaign button. Bobby agreed to set the trap and hand it to her for the picture. The beaming man in the plaid jacket was a Metro detective working auto theft who thought the idea sounded like fun. It had been a group effort all around. As Dick Zain and Randolph made up the bug, Grimes prepped Frank on how to break a suspect down. Make her feel like she’s won, he’d said. Show her the evidence, that broken DVD, so she thinks she’s free and clear. Then she’ll start gloating and her ego will take care of the rest. Especially if she’s competitive, he said, if she’s a bitch. Then she’ll talk because she wants you to know she’s beaten you. That’s how most of them go down in the end, Frank. By their own hand.

Frank and Linda turned toward the crowd. Juliana and Merdock were just getting into the limo, waving and smiling at everyone for the TV cameras—the glory of it all. Then the U.S. Attorney stepped in with his team of empty suits, the one with blond hair grabbing Frank by the arms. The U.S. Attorney looked like he was ready to bark. Frank noticed the cops in uniforms silently moving in behind everyone.

“Search him,” the U.S. Attorney said. “Read him his rights.”

Randolph moved closer. “Get your hands off him, you idiot.”

“He’s under arrest, Lieutenant,” the U.S. Attorney said.

“No, he’s not,” Grimes said. “You are.”

The U.S. Attorney didn’t get it. Randolph gave the cops a nod and they seized the U.S. Attorney and his men in suits.

The limo pulled forward, looking for a way through the throngs of people. As the car inched past, Frank saw Juliana staring out the window at the U.S. Attorney being carted off. She turned toward the limo driver like she wasn’t sure at first. Two Metro cops were sitting up front in their uniforms. Frank noticed the cop in the passenger seat staring back at her, unable to hide his smile as he glanced at the campaign button pinned to her dress.

She knew. She must have known because she lunged for the door handle, ripping at it with both hands. She was locked in. Frantic. She turned to her husband, still oblivious to what was really going on as he waved back at a man and woman pressing their hideous faces into the glass before him.

“This is the greatest day of my life,” Merdock said with satisfaction.

Juliana’s campaign pin was still broadcasting loud and clear and Frank had heard it.

The greatest day of his life.

Frank looked at the TV cameras, the hellish crowd. When he turned back to the limo, Juliana was staring at him coldly. Her face had turned to stone and he saw fear creeping into her eyes.

“There’s your shot,” Frank said to Bobby. “Get it before it’s too late.”

Bobby dropped down on one knee, raised the camera and took the shot. When the crowd rushed forward, rocking the limo on it wheels and beating it with their fists, the kid spent the rest of his film.

“You think they’ve got any idea where they’re really going?” Randolph asked his partner.

Grimes laughed, still eyeing Juliana. “The TV people don’t get it yet, but it looks like she sure does.”

Frank watched as the royal couple disappeared into the rabble. He was alive again. Clean again. The monster he’d created, wounded beyond repair. The president would probably get the news from Stewart Brown in a few hours. It would be a rough night with his new consultant. Scheming. Posturing. His legacy turned to dust and tossed into the wind.

Frank felt Linda squeeze his hand and gave her a look. She moved closer, pressing her body into him. Her eyes drifted down to his mouth and then back again. As he gazed at her face, he noticed that her lips were parted and he touched her cheek with his fingers. Her skin felt soft and smooth and unexpectedly warm for a cool night in November.

“Where’s Jason Hardly?” he asked.

“Philadelphia. He’s asked me to marry him.”

“You should,” he said.

She nodded, even smiled, the smell of her skin intoxicating.

“Kiss me,” she said.

And he did. Pulling her closer and unable to let go.

About the Author

ROBERT ELLIS is the national bestselling author of Access to Power, The Dead Room, City of Fire, The Lost Witness, and Murder Season. His books have been translated into more than ten languages and are available in all formats. Born in Philadelphia, Robert moved to Los Angeles where he worked as a writer, producer, and director in film, television, and advertising. Visit him online at www.robertellis.net.