Nik Kane Alaska Mystery - 02 - Capitol Offense (17 page)

If Kane hadn’t been associated with Jeffords for so many years, he might not have been able to parse that sentence.

“You mean, you’ll quit trying to cause me trouble if I play ball?” he said. “Like, for instance, a couple of guys with guns might not call on me again?”

Blair shook his head.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “I was simply referring to the level of cooperation you might expect from the official investigation.”

Kane laughed.

“What official investigation?” he asked. “If you’ve got people investigating this crime, they must be using the cloak of invisibility. Nobody’s seen them.”

“Look—” Blair began, but Kane held up a hand.

“No, you look,” he said. “You people don’t seem to have anything to offer me and you don’t really have anything to threaten me with, so you’re just wasting my time.”

He turned and started walking. Blair let him get to the door before he said, “Did you know that Melinda Foxx’s mouth was full of cleaning fluid?”

That stopped Kane. He turned and retraced his steps.

“Cleaning fluid?” he said “What kind of cleaning fluid?”

“Some sort of industrial cleaner,” Blair said. “The kind used to clean bathrooms. At least, that’s what the autopsy says.”

“What else did they find?” Kane asked.

Blair shook his head.

“Uh-uh,” he said. “Tit for tat. Who’s paying you?”

Kane thought about not telling him. He supposed he had some sort of ethical obligation not to out his employer. But he was being paid to solve a crime, and Blair might have more to tell him.

“Mrs. Richard Foster,” he said.

Blair nodded at the name.

“I’m not surprised,” he said. “The Fosters have been a thorn in our side forever. And I imagine she’s got special reason to help Matthew Hope.”

“Such as?” Kane said.

Blair shook his head.

“I’m not going into that,” he said. “Is Tom Jeffords involved in your investigation?”

Kane shook his head.

“Now, now,” he said, “if I was that easy you wouldn’t respect me. I want a copy of the autopsy report.”

“I can’t give you that,” Blair said. “It would be compromising the investigation.”

“Don’t be silly,” Kane said. “The law requires the prosecution to give a copy to the defense. So I’ll see it eventually. All you’d be doing is shortcutting the process.”

Blair seemed to think about that.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll see that you get a copy of the pages detailing what they found on the body. That’s all I can do. If I give you more, I’ll have investigators and prosecutors screaming and throwing fits. Now, what about Jeffords?”

“Nope,” Kane said. “I want that information. In my hand. Now.”

Blair looked at Kane steadily.

“Ask anybody in the building,” he said. “My word is good.”

Kane shook his head.

“This is a murder investigation,” he said, “not some political deal. The sooner you guys figure that out, the better. For all I know, you killed Melinda Foxx. So I’m not taking your word for anything.”

Blair started to say something but stopped. He got to his feet, walked around the governor’s desk, and picked up a folder. He walked back around the desk, and handed it to Kane.

“This is the information,” he said. “But if you tell anyone I gave it to you, I’ll call you a liar.”

“Fair enough,” Kane said, taking the folder and turning to walk away.

“What about Jeffords?” Blair asked.

“As far as I know, Tom Jeffords isn’t involved in this investigation in any way,” he lied, and left the room.

K
ane walked up a couple of flights, took a seat in the hallway, and leafed through the pages Blair had given him. They looked like the beginning of the autopsy and the test results that went with it. An examination of the body prior to dissection found evidence, lubricant and a few bruises, consistent with sexual intercourse and sodomy, but no “sexual materials” other than a few pubic hairs. Lab examination found no follicles attached to the hairs, making DNA matching difficult. The liquid found in the victim’s mouth was identified as an industrial cleaner of the sort commonly used by janitors. Its presence in the mouth had made other evidentiary inquiries in that area impossible.

And that was it. Nothing about what they’d found when they opened her up. Well, either he’d have to find something more to trade or count on Doyle to pry the rest out of the prosecutors.

He tucked the folder under his arm and walked down the hall to the Senate Finance Committee room. He was more anxious than ever to talk to Ralph Stansfield about Melinda Foxx, particularly about her sexual habits, but the committee was still in session. Stansfield sat at Senator Potter’s right hand, almost invisible behind a pile of files. Letitia Potter sat on her father’s left, her eyes watching everything at once. A man in a bad suit sat at the witness table, droning on about “methods and measures” and “full-time equivalents.” The senators read their mail or stared into space or held tête-à-têtes at the side of the room.

Prying Stansfield out of the meeting would be difficult, maybe impossible, so Kane stood at the back of the room until Letitia Potter’s gaze swept over him. She gave no sign of recognition.

I guess the old Nik Kane charm is working full-time, Kane thought as he left the room.

He walked down the hall to Hope’s office, where a very polite receptionist told him that the senator was in a committee meeting on the second floor. On his way down the stairs, Kane was passed by energetic young staffers carrying files hurrying up and down. Every landing held people holding whispered conversations.

Hope’s committee meeting was more orderly and every bit as boring. He and four other senators sat behind a raised, V-shaped desk at the front of the room, paying elaborate attention to a woman talking about mineral leasing fees. The rows of chairs behind her were filled with people. Several appeared to be asleep.

If you added up all the government salaries, lobbyists’ fees, and other money being paid to people just sitting there, Kane thought, I wonder how much one of these meetings costs?

He stood in the doorway until Hope noticed him, then nodded toward the hallway. Hope nodded back and stayed put.

Maybe I need to change my deodorant, Kane thought.

He took a seat in the hallway. People came and went. He thought about his upcoming dinner with Dylan and just what he wanted to get out of it.

Do I want to do something for him? Kane thought. Do I want him to do something for me? Do I suppose that, at this late date, we’re suddenly going to become a father and son like you used to see on TV? Like Ozzie and Ricky, maybe? Or Andy and Opie?

I’m not sure, he thought. Maybe with Laurie pushing me out of her life, I just wish I was special to someone. Of course, if I’d been a better father, I wouldn’t have to wish.

He’d tried, or at least he’d thought so at the time. But something would come up at work and he’d miss Emily’s ballet performance. He’d stay too long at a bar and not show up for Amy’s basketball game. And Dylan? He’d made it to maybe one of his Little League games. No wonder the kid stopped playing sports. And then Dylan was just reaching puberty and—wham!—his father was off to prison and out of his life.

I wonder who explained the birds and bees to him? Kane thought.

The committee room began spewing people, some walking fast, others ambling out talking in twos and threes. Hope came out talking to the wild-haired reporter.

“I’m afraid I have nothing to say about the murder, Sean,” he was saying. “All I did was discover the body.”

The reporter started to say something, but Kane intervened.

“Hello, Senator,” he said, stepping between the two men. “We need to talk.”

“Hey,” the reporter said, but Kane ignored him and, taking Hope by the arm, steered him down the hall toward the stairs.

“Thanks,” Hope said as they reached the stairwell. “These reporters are all over me and I’m not really sure what to tell them.”

“You were doing fine,” Kane said. “Innocent and ignorant is just the way to play it.”

People were pouring down the stairway, leaving little room for people headed up, so Kane followed Hope to the fourth floor single file, catching up to him again at his office door.

“I wasn’t just trying to save you from tough questions down there,” he said. “I really do have some things to talk about.”

Hope went into the office. Kane followed. His outer office was just as small as Grantham’s, and it contained a couple of guys in suits who perked up when Hope entered like retrievers hearing gunshots.

“Your four o’clock is here, Senator,” his receptionist said.

“Be right with you,” Hope said, nodding. He picked up a sheaf of telephone messages and walked into his private office. Kane followed, closing the door behind him. Hope sat behind his desk and began leafing though the messages.

“If it’s about what happened that night,” he said, “I’ve already told you everything I know.”

“That’s bullshit,” Kane said cheerfully, “but we’ll let that pass for a moment. I want to know why a couple of guys with guns are trying to scare me off your case.”

“Guys with guns?” Hope said. “You’d better sit down.”

Kane did, and told Hope about his encounter with the two men and the gift of the dead cat. When he finished, Hope shrugged.

“I don’t have any idea who those men might be or who they might be working for,” he said. “I have my share of political enemies, but none of them have ever used guns. Or sent me dead animals.”

“Do you think it could be this domestic partners bill?” Kane asked. “An issue like homosexual rights can bring out some weird people.”

“Gay rights,” Hope said. “We don’t say homosexual. We say gay. Although why we expect that group to be any gayer than the rest of us is beyond me.”

He shook his head.

“Sorry,” he said, “I can’t help you with this. I have no idea who might be behind those threats. And I do have an appointment.”

Kane got to his feet.

“Okay,” he said, “but you should be careful. Guns can shoot senators, too.”

He went through the outer office, up a flight of stairs and down the hall. The Finance Committee room was empty except for a couple of women putting files in some of the cabinets along one wall. A hand-lettered sign that read “Staff Meeting” was taped to Potter’s office door. Kane tried the door handle. Locked. He walked back through the room, down the hall, and into the stairwell, where he was nearly bowled over by Alma Atwood.

“Oh,” she said, taking a step back. “It’s you. Hi.”

“Hi yourself,” Kane said. “How are you feeling?”

“After disgracing myself, you mean?” she said with an embarrassed smile. “I’ve been in a fog all day, I haven’t been able to eat anything, and my head’s just stopped hurting. Other than that, I’m swell.”

Kane laughed.

“I hope you’re drinking lots of water,” he said.

“I am,” Alma said, putting a hand on his arm. “I was going to try to find you later, to apologize for being such a problem. I didn’t say or do anything…irretrievable…did I?”

Kane shook his head.

“Not by my standards,” he said. “After all, I’ve done much worse.”

Alma sighed with relief.

“I’m so glad,” she said. “I don’t know what got into me. Can I make it up to you? Are you busy tonight?”

“I regret to say I am,” Kane said. “I’m having dinner with my son.”

“Oh,” Alma said, “that will be nice.”

“How about you?” Kane asked. “What are you up to?”

“Tonight?” Alma said. “Well, Thursday night is usually when I stay home and do my laundry.” She paused. “You know, maybe after dinner you could come by?”

“I don’t know what I’ll be doing,” Kane said.

“No biggie,” Alma said. “I’ve got a lot of laundry to do, so I’ll be up until at least ten. You know where I live. And here’s my number.”

She wrote something on a small yellow pad, tore off the sheet, and handed it to Kane. He folded it and put it into his pocket.

“I’ll make it if I can,” he said. “Can I bring anything?”

“Anything but alcohol,” Alma said with a laugh, and went on her way.

Kane was stopped on the fourth-floor landing by the House minority leader.

“Hey there,” he said. “It’s Nik Kane, right? Still trying to find out about Melinda Foxx? Come with me. I’ve got someone you should talk to.”

He led Kane through an outer office and into an inner office about the size of a cruise ship cabin. A tall man was behind the desk, mixing drinks. Two men sat on a couch and a third leaned against the windowsill. All had martini glasses in their hands.

The minority leader made introductions.

“What’s your pleasure?” the man behind the desk asked. “We have vodka martinis or vodka martinis.”

“Nothing for me, thanks,” Kane said.

“Ah, no drinking on the job, eh?” the man said. “A sound policy. One we follow ourselves, which is why you’d never find anyone in this office drinking before five o’clock.”

“Except in months with vowels in them,” one of the men on the couch said.

Everyone laughed at what was clearly a well-worn joke.

“I didn’t bring you in here just to rub elbows with these reprobates,” the minority leader said. “But Silversmith there, in addition to being a fine human being, is a Republican…”

“Boo, hiss,” the man behind the desk said. “Hiss, boo.”

“And,” the minority leader went on, “his House district is part of O. B. Potter’s Senate district.”

“And you’ll never get me to say an unkind word about my senator,” Silversmith said from his seat on the couch. “At least not that I’ll admit to later.”

“We don’t quote anything said in the presence of the great god vodka,” the man behind the desk said. “Who needs a refill?”

“Amen,” said the man leaning against the windowsill. He held out his glass and the other man filled it.

“I’m not finished,” the minority leader said. “Silversmith is also a rarity amongst us, a bachelor. Which means he can actually admit to having tried to get into Melinda Foxx’s pants. Unlike some people I could name.”

The man leaning against the window raised his glass in a mock toast.

“Is there anything you can tell me about that, Representative Silversmith?” Kane said.

Silversmith shook his head.

“Only that it was as futile as a minority floor amendment to the budget,” he said, holding out his glass.

The man behind the desk handed the martini shaker to Kane, who filled the glass and handed the shaker back. Silversmith took a sip.

“Ahhh,” he said. “Smooth. Don’t need a chaser, nothing can catch it. Where was I? Oh, yes, the bootylicious Miss Foxx.”

“You can tell he’s a Republican,” the other man on the couch said. “He said ‘Miss’ instead of ‘Ms.’”

“Miss. Ms. It’s all the same to me,” Silversmith said.

“Mrs., too,” the man behind the desk said, “if the rumors are true.”

That ignited another round of laughter.

“A slur,” Silversmith said. “A canard. My seconds will call on you, sir.”

If I let these guys get any more booze on board, Kane thought, they’ll be plotting a panty raid.

“So what can you tell me about Miss or Ms. Foxx?” he asked.

“I can tell you she was a very desirable young woman,” Silversmith said, “and seemed totally immune to my not-inconsiderable charms.”

“Hard to believe,” the man behind the desk said.

“Would you mind telling me about that?” Kane asked.

Silversmith laughed.

“A politician mind talking about himself?” he said. “Not likely.”

He took another sip of martini.

“As you may have noticed,” he said, “this is a target-rich environment for a single man.”

“Don’t have to be single,” the man leaning on the windowsill said.

“Don’t interrupt,” Silversmith said. “People will think you’re drunk.”

“They’ll be right,” the man behind the desk said.

“Anyway,” Silversmith said loudly. And into the silence that followed, he said, “So I didn’t actually get around to Ms. Foxx until the beginning of this session. I asked around, was told she was unattached, bided my time, swooped in, and asked her out. And she said…no.”

The man behind the desk and the one leaning against the windowsill pounded on the desktop. They and the other men said, “Woof, woof, woof.”

“Children,” Silversmith said, shaking his head. “I’m surrounded by children. Anyway, I pursued the lass with some diligence, but she met my every sally with polite refusal.”