William Bernhardt - Capitol Threat

“And the baseball bat?”

“I keep it in my car. A girl has to protect herself.”

Loving wiped blood from his brow. “Remind me not to tangle with you.”

More eyelash batting. “You’re welcome to tangle with me anytime, lover boy.”

“Later. Any idea where Renny is?”

“Uh-huh. He just took his bedtime downer and headed for his upstairs apartment. There are guards.”

“There always are. Lead the way, Trudy.”

“Sure you’re up to it?”

“No choice, really.”

She smiled at him, then puckered up. “Another kiss? For luck?”

Loving returned the smile. “Sorry. Not on the first date.”

Renny had just snuggled into the satin sheets of his huge bed, prepared to sleep the sleep of the content, a good day’s work complete. He liked to keep his sleeping quarters private. There were plenty of places downstairs for indulging in the pleasures of the women who drifted in and out of the club. This was his sanctuary, his fortress of solitude, a place where he could be alone with his thoughts. No women were allowed, nor anyone else for that matter. The boys on the landing made sure he wasn’t disturbed.

At least, that was how it was supposed to work.

His eyes had barely closed when he felt a hand wrap around his throat.

Renny tried to sit up, but the strong hand pinned him to his pillow.

“Don’t bother strugglin’,” Loving whispered. “You couldn’t outmuscle me even if you weren’t doped to the gills. And you are.”

Renny tried to speak, but the hand crushing his windpipe made it difficult. “What—where—”

“Your guards? Lying in a heap on the plush shag carpet, which by the way may be hot stuff in Europe, but here in the United States is totally passé. Very 1970.” He tightened his grip. “Don’t bother callin’ for them. They’re likely to be immobile for some time. Apparently they don’t play baseball back in whatever country you recruited them from.”

Renny’s legs and arms thrashed back and forth. Loving barely twitched.

“Here’s the deal,” Loving said. “I know you understand how quickly a person with a collapsed trachea can die, since you were briefing me on exactly that subject earlier. So I’ll give you one chance to tell me what I want to know. One chance. You will tell me why Victoria went to the Roush press conference. You will tell me about this political favor Victoria did earlier in the year. You will tell me about the Boston museum job. You will tell me everything else I want to know—anything that might be of interest to me. And in exchange, I will let you live to see the authorities clean up this den of sex and stolen art. You will serve a long prison sentence. But you will be alive. If you tell me what I want to hear. Are we clear on this?”

Loving continued choking Renny for a few more seconds, just to make sure he got his point across. When he finally released the man, he sat upright, coughing and sputtering, massaging his sore neck. His eyes watered with pain. He coughed up blood. He hyperventilated. Then he fell back against the bed, utterly exhausted.

“All right,” he said, his voice feeble and cracked, “where shall I begin?”

55

“Judge Haskins!”

Several stray members of the White House press corps caught sight of him as he crossed from the West Wing to the driveway where his ride was waiting. He was nattily attired in a navy blue suit, both buttons buttoned, and a dynamic red tie. His hair was freshly cut and appeared to be sprayed into place. When the bright lights of the minicams switched on, a faint trace of base makeup was discernible at the ridge of his jaw.

He paused, as if thinking about whether he really wanted to deal with the press, then let out a small sigh and turned to face them.

“Have you been talking with the President?”

Haskins dipped his head slightly. “I have had that pleasure, yes.”

“Then it’s confirmed. After the Senate rejects Thaddeus Roush, President Blake is going to nominate you.”

He held up his hands. “I don’t want to presume to know the mind of the Senate.”

“You must be aware that Roush lacks the votes to be confirmed,” the brunette representing CBS said. “After he’s out of the running, the President will want to put someone up fast. While he still can.”

“If Judge Roush’s nomination fails, it is my understanding that the President wishes to move forward with all deliberate speed.”

The AP stringer tried to cut past the polite gobbledygook. “He’s going to nominate you, isn’t he?”

Haskins gave them a gosh, shucks shrug worthy of Ronald Reagan.

“I have three unnamed sources who say you’re going to be the pick,” the CBS woman added, egging him on. “The President would be crazy not to choose you. How could the Senate reject a national hero?”

Haskins held up his hands. “Look, I want to make one thing perfectly clear. I bear no animosity whatsoever toward Judge Roush. He is a fine man, a fine jurist, and he would undoubtedly be a fine member of the Supreme Court. I have no desire to take that away from him.”

“But if the Senate does reject him?” the AP stringer asked.

“As it will,” the CBS representative added.

Haskins tilted his head to one side. “In that unfortunate instance, I would of course consider accepting any nomination, were I so honored as to be selected.”

“And the President has in fact already selected you, hasn’t he? It’s a done deal.”

“Again, I don’t want to presume to know the minds of others. Especially not the leader of the free world.”

A new reporter pushed to the front, a short, wiry man whose age was demonstrated not so much by his balding head as the fact that he was actually using a pad and paper. “Judge Haskins, this is a matter of great national importance. You’ve met with the President for three consecutive days. We know he’s had his people running background checks on you. We know his staff has pored over every opinion you’ve written in your time on the Tenth Circuit. And today, you’ve been closeted with him for more than two hours, which is the functional equivalent of spending a week with anyone else on earth. The people have a right to know—are you going to be the next nominee for the Supreme Court?”

Haskins sighed, as if overwhelmed by the force of the questioning. “It is my understanding that…in the event that Judge Roush’s nomination should fail…the President has indicated that I have his support.”

A dozen cell phones flipped open. The press corps’ fingers raced to be the first to phone the story home.

“In fact,” Haskins continued, “the President has asked me to be present in the gallery of the Senate when the vote on the Roush nomination is taken so that, if the nomination is rejected, he can immediately present his replacement.”

The reporters chatted all at once into their cells, making it pointless for Haskins to continue. He turned toward the limo that had pulled up behind him while he was speaking.

“Congratulations,” the limo driver said, as he opened the rear door.

“Let’s not be premature. Even if Judge Roush is rejected, there’s no guarantee they won’t reject me, too.”

“Reject the man who saved a baby from a burning building? I don’t think so.” He stood erect and saluted. “I think I have the very great privilege of chauffeuring the next member of the Supreme Court of the United States.”

“Well,” Haskins said, smiling shyly, with a tiny twinkle in his eye, “I just hope you’re right.”

56

“You’re sure about this?” Ben barked into the phone.

“Positive, Skipper.”

“And you can prove it?”