A Slow Walk to Hell (14 page)

S
imon sprang from his chair and followed Enrique out the door. I started to go after them when I felt a hand on my arm.

Amanda’s big eyes were focused on me. Releasing her grip, she said, “Some of the things I said to get you to talk about Baldwin. They were out of line. If I’d known—”

“You were doing your job. You had a right to question what I was hiding.”

A tiny, relieved smile. “If it helps, I think you did the right thing. Keeping the general’s secret.”

“You’d have made the same decision?” It was important for me to know that she wasn’t just talking.

She answered slowly, thinking as she spoke. “Call it my academy upbringing or my Midwest convictions, but I don’t support gays in the military. Never have. That said, I also know I couldn’t turn in a friend.” She grimaced wryly. “I guess that makes me a hypocrite. How can you support a policy and not have courage to enforce it when it affects you personally.”

“It’s called being human,” I said.

She smiled again and squeezed my hand. I tensed at her touch and she jerked away as if she’d been scalded. Her eyes searched mine for an explanation and I knew better than to even try.

“We’d better get going.” I started to leave, walking quickly. I only managed to make it a couple steps before—

“Marty.”

Shit.

I stopped and reluctantly about-faced. Amanda was giving me
the
look. She said, “Mind telling me what that was all about just now?”

“It’s nothing. You surprised me. That’s all.” I tried to come off as completely sincere.

“Like hell,” she snapped.

I sighed. “Look, can we talk about this later?”

“What do you think?”

“Amanda, it would be better—”

“No.”

I saw the stubborn set of her beautiful jaw. No way would she let this go. I gave in, saying, “It’s us. It’s the relationship that we have now.”

“What relationship?”

“That’s just it. We don’t have one. You’re engaged. I have to accept that fact. But it’s difficult when…when you do things, say things that make me believe there’s a chance—”

She cut me off with a look of incredulity.
“It was a gesture.”

“I know, but—”

“Between friends.”

“Amanda, please. Consider it from my perspective—”

She interrupted me again. She was really pissed off. “I
am
. You want a purely professional relationship, you got it. From now on, it’s strictly business between us. When this investigation is finished, I’ll ask General Hinkle not to assign us to work together again.
Ever.
You happy now?”

Now I was getting angry.
“Me
happy? You wanted this, remember?”

She addressed me in a patronizing tone as if I were a child. “You really don’t understand, do you? Some fucking cop you are.”

“Get what? What are you talking about?”

“Forget it, Marty. It doesn’t matter. It was a crazy idea. I’m not sure why I even agreed to try. Serves me right. Let’s just finish this damn case, so we can each get on with our lives.” She brushed past me and walked out the door.

I stared after her, feeling stunned and confused. She said she wanted me to make the right decision and I thought I had. What the hell did she want from me?

Exiting the house, I nodded to a uniformed cop by the door and crossed the Spanish tile porch. Amanda and Simon were standing on the stone walkway that wound past the flower beds toward the driveway. I strolled up to them, stopping near Amanda. She immediately sidestepped around Simon, placing him between us. Simon watched this little display with a wry smile. He was enjoying this.

With a sigh, I focused on winking lights hovering in the moonlit sky. The silhouette of a corporate helicopter was visible several hundred feet up. As it descended toward the sprawling lawn, I shifted my gaze toward the gate. The crowd of media had grown, almost doubling in size. Amid the camera flashes and glare of TV lights, I could make out more uniformed police officers who’d been deployed to insure that no one tried to enter the grounds. You can’t be too careful where the security of the leading presidential contender was concerned.

I said to Simon, “You didn’t know the congressman was flying in?” Because he might have simply neglected to tell us.

“No.”

I shrugged. “Guess this tells us why Harris wasn’t worried about the press being here.”

“Does it?”

A comment which generated glances from Amanda and me. For an instant, our eyes locked. She severed the link with a frosty look and turned away.

Seconds later, the helo touched down, rocking gently on its skids. The rotors slowed as the engine was shut off. A small door opened and the figures of two men hopped out, their heads bent to avoid the still spinning rotor blades. After carefully surveying their surroundings, the men assisted the other occupants from the helicopter.

“Secret Service,” Amanda said, proving she could still talk, just not to me.

As a presidential front-runner, Congressman Harris was entitled to Secret Service protection.

Four additional figures emerged from the chopper. Three men and a woman. Their faces were difficult to distinguish in the dim light, but we knew that the couple walking hand-in-hand must be the congressman and his wife.

“I was afraid of this,” Simon said. “He stopped to pick up his wife. He shouldn’t have done so. Particularly in her condition. It’s unwise.”

He sounded irritated. Apparently, this was another little detail that Congressman Harris had conveniently forgotten to mention to him.

I said, “Her condition? Is she ill?”

“She’s being treated for exhaustion. It’s why she didn’t accompany him to Pennsylvania.”

The group started across the lawn toward us. Simon automatically straightened his tie and adjusted his cuffs. Amanda ran a hand over her hair and smoothed her suit. I just stood there with my hands to my side. When you’re sporting a borderline crew cut and wearing an off-the-rack suit, there wasn’t any point in primping.

I began humming a tune.

There was no reaction from Simon, but then his interest in music began and ended with classical. Amanda eyed me sourly. “Not funny.”

I looked back innocently. “Excuse me?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Know what?”

“Act your age for once.” She pivoted and headed down the walkway. As Simon and I followed her, he gave me a questioning look. I explained I was humming, “You’re So Vain.” He grinned. I knew it was funny.

“Simon!”

We stopped about halfway down the walkway, looking back. Enrique was bounding down the front steps.

“Okay,” he said, jogging up to Simon. “I gave Dr. Cantrell’s assistant Maggie a heads-up. Everyone else knows to be cool. I told them not to do anything stupid, like ask for autographs. Here.” He handed Simon a packet of latex gloves.

Pocketing it, Simon said, “And Mrs. Johnson?”

The part-time maid; Simon must have asked Enrique to try contacting her again.

“Still not in,” Enrique said, “but her husband swears she’ll be home any minute. I’ll give her another shout pretty soon and ask her about the sheets.”

The comment jogged my memory. I said, “Simon, I forgot to mention—”

He’d resumed his trek down the walkway. By the time I turned around, Enrique was going back up the stairs.

Amanda said, “You wondering about the sheets?”

I blinked, surprised she’d actually spoken to me. “You know what Simon’s after?”

“I can guess. It’s pretty obvious if you’d paid attention to the videos.”

Then she flashed a mocking smile and promptly departed after Simon.

I almost called out who was being immature now. The reason I held off was because I realized she’d provided a clue to Simon’s interest. I thought hard, trying to remember. No good. I’ve have to see the videos again to be certain.

Obvious my ass.

We waited under a lamp at the edge of the driveway, as the group approached. The small procession moved slowly, every face leaden. No one spoke or attempted conversation. They were treating this like a funeral procession, which, in reality, it was.

Congressman Harris and his wife led the way, their hands still clasped together. In person, they looked much more striking than they did on TV. Even though Harris was well over fifty, he easily passed for someone a decade younger. His blow-dried hair was thick and brown, and his face possessed a boyish charm that the camera and the voters loved. In her early forties, Teresa Harris looked more like a former beauty queen than the Olympic athlete she once was. Blonde and blue-eyed, she had a long, willowy frame and despite the exhaustion that Simon had mentioned, moved with an athletic grace honed by years of dedicated training. Her sport had been skiing and in an interview with Barbara Walters, she said that missing out on an Olympic medal—she’d placed something like fifth or six in her event—was the one failure which still haunted her.

I doubt if she’s failed at anything since.

“She’s really stunning, isn’t she?” Amanda said. “No wonder they’re leading the polls.”

She said they, not he. It wasn’t a misstatement. In addition to her beauty and athletic prowess, Teresa Harris had been blessed with exceptional intellect and ambition. In her own right, she’d been a senior partner at a prominent DC Law firm, had served as an undersecretary of the treasury and more recently, as the head of the U.S. Olympic committee. The latter position had heightened her national visibility and early on, the campaign decided to emphasize her credentials as much as her husband’s. Posters, TV spots, pins, bumper stickers—you name it—her smiling image was always visible beside his. According to a recent editorial, Teresa had suggested this two-for-one strategy in an attempt to attract the female vote. So far, it was proving wildly successful. In four short months, Harris had risen from the back of the pack to become his party’s nominee because of one reason—his wife.

Focusing on the two people bracketing the Harrises, I realized I’d made an error in my previous assessment. The person hovering next to Mrs. Harris was actually a black woman. Her size had thrown me. She was well over six feet, solidly built, with close-cut hair and shoulders that were easily as wide as mine. Her Amazonian appearance ended at her face which was finely chiseled and attractive. As I looked at her, I knew I’d seen her before, but couldn’t place her. I didn’t have that trouble with the graying, barrel-chested man walking beside Congressman Harris. He was Roland Slater, the shrill voiced, fire-and-brimstone campaign manager.

The two Secret Service agents brought up the rear, walking in a stiff cadence that reminded me of toy soldiers. The agent on the left was pushing forty, medium height and weight, with a square jaw and an even squarer flat-top haircut. His sandy-haired partner mirrored his height and looked about ten years younger. I kept waiting for them to blink. They never did.

As the entourage came to a stop, Simon initiated the introductions. If he was nervous about meeting someone of Harris’s stature, he gave no sign. His diction was smooth, his manner attentive and sympathetic. The black woman was Abigail Gillette, a personal assistant to Mrs. Harris. Her name awakened my memory. She’d been a star college basketball player and a former Olympian. The latter connection explained how she’d got the job working for Mrs. Harris.

No one introduced the Secret Service men, but then they wouldn’t. Everyone had perfunctory handshakes except for Slater, who had a viselike grip which he squeezed hard in an attempt at intimidation.
Prick.

“My deepest condolences for your loss,” Simon said.

The congressman and his wife nodded. Mrs. Harris’s grief was clearly evident. Her eyes were dull and unfocused, and her lower lip trembled. She transferred her grip to her husband’s arm as if on the brink of collapse. If Harris felt a similar sense of loss, he was certainly doing a good job of hiding it. His expression was coolly regal, devoid of any emotion.

“We’d like to see the body, Lieutenant,” Harris said. His baritone voice indicated it wasn’t a request, but a command.

Simon’s eyes sought out Mrs. Harris. Gently, he said, “Mrs. Harris, if I might suggest, it might be better if you remain—”

“No,” she said, with surprising force. “I…I have to do this. I have to see Franklin.”

Simon raised an eyebrow at Harris. The congressman patted his wife’s hand. “Teresa understands it will be…unpleasant.”

“Of course.” Simon still appeared reluctant. “It is a crime scene, Mr. Congressman. I’m afraid I have to restrict access to the minimum.” He looked at Slater and Gillette.

Slater said, “Now just a damned minute—”

“The lieutenant’s right, Rolly,” Harris said smoothly. “We certainly don’t want to compromise the crime scene.”

“We’re accompanying the congressman, Lieutenant.”

This came from the flattop who stepped forward with his Secret Service sidekick. Flattop planted his feet wide, eying Simon. “Where the congressman goes, we go.”