William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

Renny’s eyelids fluttered. He looked up at Loving, who from his angle must have appeared to be about forty feet tall. “Trudy say you wish to speak to me?”

He had a thick accent—Russian, Loving thought, but he couldn’t be sure—and a salt-and-pepper mustache and beard that was no doubt supposed to compensate for the thinning hair on the top of his head. Loving introduced himself, providing as little information as possible. “You know—or I should say, knew—a woman named Victoria.”

His lips turned up in a sweet, trembly smile. “Ah, sweet Victoria. Such boobies on that woman! Not real, of course. But I have not been such a man as would care.”

Loving pursed his lips and tried again. “I was wondering why you asked Trudy—”

“Trudy! Yes! Another fine example of the woman.”

“She’s—he’s not a woman.”

“Such a nitpicker you are. Trudy is charming and very pleasant for the eyes. What more does a man require?”

“Well…”

“Most importantly, she is so agreeable. She will do anything I ask her to do, you know what I say? Absolutely anything. All I do is pass a little money her way every now and then and she is mine to command. Every man should be so lucky as to have such a willing slave.”

Beside him, Loving saw the topic of conversation doing a slow burn. Trudy was angry.

“But enough chatter about people such as these. Why do you ask me questions?”

“I’m trying to find out why you asked Trudy to escort Victoria to the Thaddeus Roush press conference.”

Renny shrugged happily, still basking in the easygoing state of afterglow contentment. “That is easy to explain.”

“It is?” Loving considered himself pretty good at this sort of thing, but even he hadn’t expected the man to talk this quickly. “Why?”

“Because Victoria—such a lovely woman, but she did not drive.”

“That’s it? ’Cause she couldn’t drive?”

“What can I say? A wonderful woman Victoria was. Extremely talented. In so many unexpected ways. But she grew up in Manhattan. She never learned to operate a motor vehicle.”

“But—” Loving tried to suppress his growing frustration. “There must be some reason you arranged for her to go to the press conference. I’m pretty sure she didn’t have a press pass.”

Renny’s eyes lowered. For the first time, Loving had the sense that he was thinking before he spoke. “Ah. But there you touch on matters of business. I cannot discuss matters of business.”

Loving squatted down till they were eye level. “That ain’t good enough. A woman is dead. An innocent man has been accused. This could affect who does and doesn’t end up on the Supreme Court. You’re gonna have to talk.”

“Ahh…I think not.”

Loving leaned forward. “I think so.” He reached for the man’s collar.

“That would not be such a good idea.”

“Oh yeah? You think you could take me?”

Loving felt a hand on his shoulder. Trudy. “That’s not what he means, sugar.” Trudy jerked her head backward.

Loving did a quick scan of the room. They were hard to see. The spotlights on the walls focused upon the art objects, creating blind spots in unusual places. But when Loving forced himself to focus, he was able to detect at least four men standing about the room, one against each wall. They were not paying the slightest attention to the women in the room. They were watching him and Renny—their boss, no doubt—very carefully.

Muscle. Hired muscle.

Renny shrugged. “So you see, Mr. Loving, we are at an impasse, are we not?”

Loving backed off. He could take those creeps one at a time, but they were unlikely to come at him one at a time. That’s why there were four of them.

“This isn’t over. I’ll be back.”

“I think not,” Renny said, supremely confident. “It will take more than a strong arm to get you in here again. You will never get past the bouncers at the front door. So I fear that this is farewell, my friend.”

Loving gritted his teeth. Much as he hated to admit it, the man was right. How would he ever get in here again? He wasn’t a police officer, and even if he were, what would be the basis for a warrant? Even if he put on a Sherlock Holmes–type disguise, he’d probably never be able to get back in here again. He’d played his hand and lost. What a fool he’d been! He should have seen this coming. He should have—

“There’s a back door behind the green sculpture,” Trudy whispered in his ear, pointing.

“Huh?”

“Go.” Trudy leaned forward over Renny’s easy chair. “And just for the record, I never liked working for you, and you still owe me money, you Ukrainian creep!”

Renny looked almost as puzzled as Loving felt.

Trudy turned her attention back to Loving. “Count of ten, sugar.”

“Huh? What are you gonna do?”

“What I do best. Create a diversion.” Trudy winked. “Count of ten.”

Loving began counting. Trudy disappeared. And ten seconds later, the lights went out.

A gun fired in the darkness.

43

Ben was closeted with his advisors—quite literally, since they were all standing in a janitorial storage closet down the hall from his office. The press had Ben’s office, Senator Hammond’s office, and the Caucus Room covered; this was about the only place left where they could meet without having to field the same question over and over again: Will Thaddeus Roush withdraw?

“Is there no hope at all?” Ben asked.

Sexton shook his head sadly. “I’ve talked to every senator on the committee who would talk, and the AA of every senator on the committee who wouldn’t talk. This has become too much of a lightning rod—for all the worst reasons. It’s going to go straight down party lines.”

“And that means we lose,” Beauregard added, as if Ben didn’t know that already. “Ten to eight. The nomination dies in committee and President Blake picks someone else. Without ever being forced to take a controversial position on a controversial issue.”

“Who can we call? Who could we work on? There must be someone who could be persuaded to vote his or her conscience,” Ben said.

“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last forty-eight hours?” Sexton snapped. “It hasn’t happened.” He glanced at his watch. “And now it’s too late. I hate to say it, but…it probably would be best if Roush threw in the towel.”

The door cracked open. “That won’t be happening.” Roush stepped inside.

Sexton gritted his teeth. “I don’t like it any more than you do, Tad. But I hate to see you rejected. You deserve better than that.”

“I won’t turn tail and run.”

“If you go in that room, you force everyone to take a stand. It becomes a referendum on gay rights.”

“Maybe it should be!”

“Let me correct myself. It becomes a referendum on gay rights—and the gay community loses.”

“The first time. Perhaps we have to lose a few times before we can win. Better to start the process.”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said, “but I disagree. Better to wait for the right time. The first black Supreme Court nominee—Thurgood Marshall—passed because the time was right. The first female appointee—Sandra Day O’Connor—passed because the time was right. I had hoped that the time was right for you.” He lowered his head. “But apparently I was wrong.”

“So are you saying you want me to quit?” Roush looked at him, his face twisted in a knot. “Is that what you’re saying? After all we’ve been through? I should quit?”

Ben thought for a long time before finally speaking. “I think you should…” He tried again. “I think you should do what’s best for you, Tad.”