William Bernhardt - Capitol Murder

“Howdy,” Loving said. The woman looked up at him, gave him a quick once-over, then returned her attention to her drink.

This could be challenging. He wasn’t going to get her attention with stupid bar glass stunts or by talking about dogs. He rummaged through his overcoat pockets, searching for something that might work in a joint like this. Until he found just the right thing. He pulled the parts out of his pocket, put both ends into place, let a few more minutes pass innocently by, then turned toward the woman in black and smiled.

“Wanna see a trick?”

“What?” she said, in a voice almost as husky as his. “Like you’re going to pull a quarter out of my ear or something?”

“No, no. Somethin’ much more interestin’.”

“Thanks. I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself,” Loving said, but he went right on with his routine, checking out the corner of his eye to make sure she was watching. She was.

He pulled the large nail out of his pocket and pointed it toward his wrist.

“Oh, you might wanna scoot down a few seats,” Loving said pleasantly. “Sometimes the blood kind of splatters around.”

“What in the-”

“Think I can drive this iron spike through my wrist with my fist?”

Loving wasn’t sure how to read her expression, but she wasn’t turning away. “God, no. And even if you could-why?”

“I told you, it’s a trick.”

“Not one I care to see.”

“You never know. Can’t be worse than some of the stuff goin’ down on that dance floor. Here we go.” He poised the nail against his wrist and then, in a split second, brought his other fist down on the top of the nail, hard. The tip of a sharp bloody spike emerged from the other end of his wrist, piercing his shirt sleeve. Blood spurted in every direction.

“Oh my God,” the woman said, leaning away but not, Loving noticed, moving away. “Are you in pain? How can you do that?”

“Like I told you. It’s a trick.” With a swift gesture, he removed the collapsible nail from the top of his wrist and pulled the separate, spring-loaded fake spike tip-triggered by the impact of his blow to poke through the hole he’d already cut in his shirt and split open a bag of red Karo syrup. “Had you goin’, though, didn’t I?”

Despite herself, the woman smiled. “So… that isn’t really blood on your wrist?”

“Nah. Why?”

“Just… wondered.” She turned away. “You are one seriously twisted dude, mister.”

“Why else would I be here?”

“So you thought you’d win me over with that sick circus trick?”

“I dunno. Did it work?” He extended his hand.

Her grip was cold and limp. Loving didn’t get the impression she was trying to be rude. She just seemed to have a body temperature lower than most lizards. “I’m the Duchess.”

“Are you?” he replied. “I’m the Loving. You come here often?”

“Every night. But I’ve never seen you here before.”

“Yeah, it’s my first time. I didn’t know the dress code.” He noticed she had very long nails-not real, he hoped-predictably painted dark black. The red lines and glassiness of her eyes, her mildly slurred speech, her breath, all suggested to Loving that she was operating under the influence. Excessive amounts of alcohol. Or something.

“Actually, I’m here lookin’ for a friend,” he added. “Her name’s Amber. Amber Daily. Do you know her?”

“I’m afraid I’ve never heard that odd appellation.”

This from a woman who called herself the Duchess. “What about a girl called Lilith? Lady Lilith?”

Even though she tried to suppress it, he saw the flicker of recognition in the woman’s eyes.

“So you know her?”

“I’ve known a Lilith.”

“She’s twenty-two, sandy hair-or possibly black, when she comes here. Look, her dad gave me a picture.” He passed it to the Duchess.

She glanced at it, frowned, then passed it back, facedown. “She’s one of the Chosen.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means she’s permitted up there.” She pointed a long dark nail upward and across the bar.

Just to the left of the central dance area, Loving spotted an interior staircase leading to a room on the second floor. There were wall-sized windows on either side of the door, but drapes pulled across them obscured the view. “And what goes on up there?”

“Don’t know. I’ve never been invited.”

“Is going upstairs a good thing?”

“It must be. Once a girl is chosen, you never see her down here again. You never see her at all.”

Christina came to the podium with a pretty good understanding of what she could get out of Lieutenant Albertson on cross and what she couldn’t. It wasn’t as if he were lying, after all. Slanting things to serve his prosecutorial masters, maybe. But his testimony was essentially accurate. She had to make what few points she could and then sit down.

“Let’s talk about the Gutenberg, Lieutenant. You said it memorialized many appointments scheduled with V. C. And you assumed that V. C. is Veronica Cooper.”

“Well, it stands to reason-”

“Did you investigate the possibility that V. C. could be someone else?”

“Given that I had a corpse bearing those initials right there in the hideaway-”

“In other words, no. You didn’t investigate the possibility that V. C. was anyone other than Veronica Cooper. You didn’t investigate at all.”

“That’s not true.”

“Then why didn’t you consider other possibilities?”

“Ma’am, when you’ve got a dead body right-”

“Are you familiar with Senator Collins of Minnesota?”

“I… think I’ve heard the name.”

“Are you aware that his first name is Vincent?”

Albertson pursed his lips. “No.”

“What about Senator Conrad from Alaska?”

“I… haven’t had the pleasure.”

“His first name is Verne. And he’s on the same Health Committee as Senator Glancy. I would imagine they talk quite often, wouldn’t you?”

“I… suppose.”

“Did you ever ask Senator Conrad if he’d had any of those meetings with Senator Glancy? Oh wait-since you didn’t even know who he was, I guess the answer to that would be no. Am I right?”

“I didn’t talk to Senator Conrad. I saw no reason to do so.”

“Because you’d already made up your mind who the guilty party was, long before you even began your so-called investigation. Probably the instant you entered Senator Glancy’s hideaway. He was the obvious suspect, and it’s always easiest to go with the obvious suspect. Are you by any chance a Republican, sir?”

“Check your coat?”

Loving and Daily whirled around and saw a young twentysomething man in a dark tuxedo and tails standing behind a counter. In total contrast to the rest of the club, he had red hair. And a lighthearted manner that was more twee than Transylvania. He almost smiled.

“It’s hot in there,” the man added, pointing to Daily. “Thought you might want to lose the jacket.”

“Right, right.” He shrugged off his navy-blue jacket and handed it to the man behind the counter.

“Mmm. Yummy, yummy.”

Daily did a double take. “Huh?”

The man pointed. “Blood.”

Daily glanced down and saw a dark red splatter on the right arm of his shirt. “Blast,” he muttered. “Scraped my arm in that alley, Loving. Wouldn’t have happened if you’d gone down easier.”

“My apologies.”

“Maybe I better keep the jacket.”

“Whatever you say,” the man replied, handing it back. “But you may be passing up your chance to make yourself Mr. Popular in there with the Gothettes.”

“I’ll take the risk.” Loving headed toward the dance floor, while Daily slipped back into his jacket. “Do I detect a certain wry tone in your voice?”