Senator Potter grabbed his mike, showing a rare bit of spine. “What is it you’re afraid of, Mr. Kincaid?”
“I’m afraid of seeing the highest governing body of the nation demeaned by partisan mudslinging. We’re all aware that there are people both pro and con to this nomination, as there are with every nomination. That doesn’t mean we have to sink to this level.”
“We can’t ignore reality, son,” Keyes said.
“Evidently you can. We expressly asked for a continuance of this matter pending the police investigation and you refused.”
“Well…”
“So we have no choice but to ignore the crime for now and let the police investigate. If they come up with something that relates to Judge Roush, we’ll deal with it at that time. Until then, this is just cheap, petty character assassination—worse, implying guilt by association. And frankly, sir, I’d like to think you’re better than that. I’d like to think we all are.”
Ben resumed his seat. If he had hoped for a round of applause, he was disappointed.
“Well,” Keyes said, “perhaps these matters are best left alone for now. I feel certain there are many other topics we could be discussing. I’ll call the next witness.”
O frabjous day! As impotent as Ben had felt throughout this entire proceeding, apparently his little fuss had been sufficient that Keyes, weighing the benefits of continued trash talk against the detriment of appearing to be engaging in trash talk, decided to let it go. Sexton would be pleased—Ben had been tough, sort of, and it appeared to have accomplished their goal. At least in the short term.
Two things about the exchange still bothered Ben, though. First, he knew that Keyes would never have given up, not under any circumstance, unless he thought he had something better waiting in the wings.
And the second concern was: Throughout the ordeal, Senator Matera had remained silent. Their top attack dog had played no role whatsoever. That made no sense.
Unless they were saving her for the something better that was waiting in the wings.
31
Loving awoke to mixed sensations: his head felt like a rock—but a rock resting on a pillow. Not that the pillow made it throb any less. But it suggested an unusual degree of TLC from a mysterious back-alley brick attacker.
“Is Sleeping Beauty awake at last?” a soft, high-pitched voice asked.
Loving turned his head in the direction from which it came, but the movement hurt so much he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. By this time he had realized that his feet were cuffed to the posts of the bed on which he lay. The knowledge that he wasn’t going anywhere, combined with the knowledge that his head ached every time he moved it, left him with seriously diminished curiosity.
“Long as you’ve been out, you’d think I hit you with my baseball bat.”
Loving wondered if it really could have made much difference. The feminine voice was very appealing, friendly, with a trace of a Southern lilt. He would probably find it sexy if the possessor hadn’t recently beaten him into unconsciousness.
“Where am I?”
“In my room.” And a pretty shabby room, from what little Loving could see of it. Flimsy furniture, tacky wallpaper. Some kind of flophouse. Not even Motel 6 quality. “It’s not far from the poetry slam.”
“Why did you—”
He felt a fist suddenly grab the collar of his T-shirt and twist it around his throat. “Why were you looking for me?”
This time, he didn’t have to crane his neck. Trudy was hovering over him, just as she had been described. Long brunette hair, muscular figure, strong arms, which combined with the element of surprise had very much worked against him in the alleyway.
“You heard me, stalker boy. I want to know why you were looking for me.”
“I—” His first attempt to speak was not successful. His throat was filled with some filmy residue of unconsciousness, and his tongue was thick and unresponsive. “I was followin’ a lead.”
“Well now, isn’t that what they all say.” She had a way of looking at him that was positively…alluring. Loving didn’t usually go in for the bondage scene, and he didn’t think he’d been captive long enough to fall victim to the Stockholm syndrome, but there was something about this Trudy that was working for him in a big way.
Which only made it all the more difficult to talk. “I—I’m working for a man who’s working with Thaddeus Roush, that guy who’s up for the Supreme Court.”
“I know who Roush is. Don’t treat me as if I’m stupid just because I’m pretty.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“So what’s Roush got to do with me?”
“I think you know somethin’ about the woman who was killed at his press conference.”
“Do tell. And what makes you think that?”
“Got a tip from a man who tried to kill me.”
“And you considered that reliable?”
He shrugged. “Frankly, it was all I had to go on. Do you own a red Ford SUV?”
Her neck stiffened. “What if I do?”
He nodded. “Figured you did. Your car was spotted in the rear of the Roush garden that day. Ford SUV, ’01 or ’02. Didn’t appear on the list of cars owned by people known to be present. They went in more for expensive foreign cars and bulky camera vans.”
“Must be a million people who own SUVs like mine.”
“It was yours.”
“Uh-huh. So you figured I loaned my car to this poor murder victim?”
“I figured you gave her a lift. Since the car disappeared shortly thereafter and she was in no condition to drive. This other guy in our office—name of Jones—is very good with computers. He managed to hack into the database for the Maryland Turnpike Authority.”
“How’d you know I took the turnpike?”
“I didn’t for sure,” he smiled slightly—even that hurt—“until now. The police all assumed you headed back to the capital. But that wasn’t gettin’ ’em anywhere, so I decided to take a different approach. ’Sides, the turnpike has surveillance cameras.”
“It does?”
“It does. Several points down the stretch. You can’t get on or off without being spotted. Jones tapped into their video records—they’re all stored on hard drives for months—gauging the approximate time someone leavin’ the press conference might hit the turnpike. Only spotted one cute little gas guzzler like yours at what we estimated to be the time you made your getaway.”
Trudy tossed her hair back with a whip of her head. Loving felt his heart skip a beat. Totally a turn-on. “And those little cameras let you follow me all the way home to Georgetown?”
“Nah. Jones tried to enlarge the video image and get your license plate number, but it was too muddy. I figure you did something to the plate. I wasn’t able to connect the name Trudy to that car for certain. Until now.”
She tapped a long fingernail against her lips. The nail was painted bright red. “You been at this private-eye game long?”
“A fair piece. Why?”
“Well, I don’t mean to criticize, but you don’t seem very good at it.” She leaned in closer. “I think every friend I’ve got in the world—including some I haven’t seen since high school—has called in the past few days to tell me some big, beefy hunk of a guy was looking for me. If I had anything to hide, I would’ve disappeared a long time ago.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Is that supposed to prove you have nothing to hide?”
She leaned in even closer. “Or maybe I just wanted to see this big, beefy hunk of a guy for myself. And at the moment—I’m glad I did.”
It would take a stronger man than Loving for a statement like that to pass without making an impression. He knew it was unprofessional—the woman was not only a suspect, she had clubbed him over the head. But damn, she was hot.