"Want to know your time?"
Amanda tried to ignore the sliver of fear that cut through her gut. She was still too winded to speak, so she nodded warily. When the man told her the time, Amanda couldn't believe it. She hadn't swum that fast in years.
"I'm Toby Brooks." He motioned toward the first two lanes where several men and women of various ages were churning the water. "I'm with the Masters swim team."
"Amanda Jaffe," she managed, fighting to tamp down her fear.
"Nice to meet you." Suddenly Brooks looked puzzled. Then he snapped his fingers. "Jaffe. Right!" Amanda was certain he was going to mention one of her cases. "UC Berkeley about 1993?"
Amanda's eyes widened from surprise, relieved that Brooks was not going to make her relive the recent past. "'92, but that's pretty good. How'd you know?"
"I swam for UCLA. You won the two hundred free at the Pac-10s, right?"
Amanda smiled despite herself. "You have some memory."
"My girlfriend at the time was one of the women you beat. She was really upset. You sure ruined my plans for the evening."
"Sorry," Amanda said. She felt uncomfortable with Brooks so close.
Brooks grinned. "No need to be. We weren't getting on that well, anyway. So, what happened after the Pac-10s?"
"Nationals. Then I quit. I was pretty burned out by my senior year. I stayed away from pools for about five years after I graduated."
"Me, too. I ran for a while until my joints started to ache. I just got back into competitive swimming."
Brooks stopped talking and Amanda knew he was waiting for her to continue the conversation.
"So, do you work at the Y?" she asked for something to say.
"No. I'm an investment banker."
"Oh," Amanda said, embarrassed. "I thought you were coaching the team."
"I swim on the team and help out. Our coach is out sick today. Which reminds me. I put the clock on you for a reason. Ever thought about competing again? The Masters program is pretty low-key. We've got a good spread in our age groups--late twenties to three swimmers in their eighties. We could use someone with your experience."
"Thanks, but I have no interest in competing."
"Could have fooled me, the way you went at that last two hundred."
Amanda knew that Brooks was just trying to be friendly, but he just made her anxious. To her relief, he glanced over at the far lanes where a group of Masters swimmers had gathered along the wall. He stood up.
"Duty calls. It was nice meeting you, Amanda. Let me know if you change your mind about joining the team. We'd love to have you."
Brooks walked back to his charges. Amanda sank low in the water, leaned her head against the edge of the pool, and closed her eyes. Anyone watching would think that she was recovering from her swim, but Amanda was really fighting to keep her fear in check. She told herself that Brooks was just being friendly and that she had nothing to worry about, but she still felt anxious.
Little more than a year ago, she had almost died solving a horrifying series of murders committed by a surgeon at St. Francis Medical Center. She had never fully recovered from the experience. Before the Cardoni case, swimming was a sure way to relax. That didn't always work now. Amanda thought about trying another hard two hundred, but she didn't have the mental or physical energy to swim another lap. The encounter with Brooks had drained her.
Chapter Three.
The caterers were packing up and the band had already left when Harold Travis said good-bye to the last of the guests who were not on the special-contributors list. Those four men were lounging in the den, smoking Cuban cigars and sipping 1934 Taylor Fladgate port. They were also making the acquaintance of some special ladies who were going to give them an erotic thank-you for their illegal campaign contributions to the man who would soon be the Republican nominee for president of the United States.
The fund-raiser had been held in the countryside, miles from Portland, in a seventeen-thousand-square-foot octagonal house; one of four owned by the chairman of the board of a California biotech company, who was in the master bedroom with a stunning Eurasian beauty. Moments after the taillights of the caterer's van faded away, Travis nodded to one of several bodyguards who had moved among the guests inconspicuously during the evening. When the guard began speaking into his cell phone, Travis crossed the lawn and lay down on a lounge chair at the edge of the swimming pool. The house lights reflected in the dark water, floating ghostlike in the ripples caused by the breeze. It was the senator's first moment alone in hours, and he savored the quiet.
All of the party's biggest contributors were lining up now that Chester Whipple was out of the race. If the newspapers had been caught off guard by his sudden withdrawal, they were stunned by the vote he'd used to block the anti-cloning bill, which he had supported with religious fervor. Whipple's supporters were forced to back Travis now, if they wanted to have any influence in the White House. The senator was making it easy for them. He had fought the anti-cloning bill behind the scenes, using front men to do the dirty work, and he was solidly conservative on most of the other issues Whipple's people favored.
Travis closed his eyes and imagined his victory in November. The Democrats were in disarray. They didn't even have a clear front-runner in the primaries, let alone someone who would threaten him in the general election. The presidency was his for the taking.
"They're pulling up, Senator."
Travis had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had not heard the bodyguard approach. He followed the man to the front of the house. A black Porsche was just rounding the last turn in the long driveway. Travis grew hard with anticipation and did not notice Ally Bennett, a dark-haired woman in a short black evening dress, who also watched the arrival of the Porsche from the front door.
When the car stopped, the bodyguard opened the passenger door, and Lori Andrews, a slender blonde, got out. She looked around nervously. The heat rose in the senator's cheeks and groin, making him feel like a horny teenager who was about to get laid for the first time.
Jon Dupre, a handsome young man dressed in jeans, a tight black T-shirt, and a white silk jacket got out of the driver's side of the Porsche and walked over to Travis. Ally Bennett walked to his side and smiled at Lori.
"Special delivery as requested, Senator," Dupre said, flashing a cocky smile.
"Thank you, Jon."
When Lori saw the senator, the blood drained from her face. Andrews was frail and tiny, and looked as if she'd just recently hit puberty, even though she was a mother in her early twenties. Lori's parents were hard-nosed farmers who had kicked her out when they learned that she was pregnant. She hadn't finished high school, she was not particularly bright, and her looks were all she had going for her. Jon Dupre had taken her off the streets, cleaned her and fed her, and added her to his stable, because he knew that she would do anything to keep her daughter, Stacey, safe and warm. Fear and necessity had made her Jon's slave, but that was going to change. She knew that she and Stacey would be free soon. Until that happened, she had to do what Jon commanded, but she never dreamed that Jon would make her go with the senator again, especially after the last time.