Capitol Conspiracy bk-16, page 25
part #16 of Ben Kincaid Series
Until he met Belinda DeMouy.
In retrospect, it was amazing he didn’t meet her sooner, but he had been busy impressing her husband and for the most part the husband didn’t seem to have all that much to do with her. That should’ve been his first clue. When he did meet her, he was able to size her up in a single glance: lovely, lonely, frustrated, isolated. Trapped in an empty life that had no meaning. Days filled with obligations and teas and meetings and charity events and a lot of other crap that she cared nothing about. Her ice princess act didn’t fool him. He knew there was a very sexual woman locked up in there, desperate to get out. All he had to do was find the key.
As it turned out, it wasn’t hard.
He couldn’t know how bad her love life was, how impotent her older husband had proved, how he papered over his sexual failings with a slavish dedication to his work. Give the woman an orgasm, indulge her perverted little danger fantasies, and Jason found she would do anything for him. Anything at all. And in truth, it was DeMouy’s own fault. His failings and his absences made their affair more than possible. It made it easy. His stupidity had made him a cuckold.
And it was about to make him dead.
Then Jason would have everything he needed.
His cell phone beeped, just once. He glanced at it-Belinda. That was the signal.
Jason slowly withdrew the envelope marked PHOTOS from his briefcase and deposited it on the desk where DeMouy would be sure to see it. Then he left the office and started down the corridor to office 212-D. Because something had occurred to him these past few days, something he had not even shared with Belinda. The death of Senator DeMouy by identical means as Senator Hammond was sure to confuse and mislead, but it was still possible the police might figure it out. He couldn’t be sure he had matched the previous crime in every possible respect.
There needed to be two deaths, both by the same means. That would clearly tie all the murders together and make them seem undeniably the work of a terrorist advancing some twisted political goal. The obvious reason to target Senator DeMouy was because he was one of the leading advocates for the proposed constitutional amendment.
So the other victim should be Senator DeMouy’s partner, the other leader in the fight to get this amendment through the Senate.
It would all be so obvious. The police might not even bother to question Senator DeMouy’s loving wife.
Jason couldn’t help but smile as he walked down the corridor. He had considered everything, every possible contingency, worked it all out to perfection.
Guess what, Senator Kincaid? he thought as he walked briskly down the marble stairway.
You’ve got mail.
37
U.S. SENATE, RUSSELL BUILDING,
OFFICE S-201-R
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Senator DeMouy entered his office with a big smile on his face. He’d had his doubts when the president wanted to make Kincaid his Democratic point man for the amendment drive, and he hadn’t hesitated to express his misgivings, either. Oh, Kincaid seemed amiable enough, but he was a novice, had no power coalition, had no one who owed him favors, and seemed…a bit on the weak side. Not the charged particle you need to ram something like this through Congress quickly. Admittedly, the list of Democrats who might be persuaded to take the job was slim-but surely they could do better than Kincaid?
The president had assured him that he had given the matter careful consideration and dismissed DeMouy’s concerns with a blithe nonchalance that he found baffling at the time. Now he had a little more perspective on the matter. The president evidently knew something he did not-that Kincaid had a powerhouse chief of staff. She was a novice, too, but it didn’t matter. She was everything that Kincaid was not. Where he was merely smart, she was savvy. Where he was prudent, she was bold. Where he was gentle, she was pushy. And where he was…well, perhaps the kindest way to put it would be…undistinguished in appearance-she was a firecracker.
The reporter at the Post was naturally refusing to identify his source, but DeMouy had a few sources of his own, and all the evidence was pointing toward Kincaid’s little firecracker. The plan he had outlined over gumbo had worked-and then some. Good grief-in all the years he’d had to put up with legislative holds, why hadn’t anyone thought of this before? Of course he knew the answer. Even if the thought had occurred, no senator would do it or authorize their staff to do it. It would be considered an unpardonable breach of congressional ethics. But Christina McCall was not a senator, and DeMouy rather suspected she had not asked for permission before she acted. She saw a solution to the problem and she went for it. In this case, her newcomer status could aid her immeasurably. He could already hear her voice: Oh my goodness-you can’t do that? I had no idea…
Life was good, at least on the professional level, with the promise of great things to come. Back home…well, he preferred not to think about it. This dinner tonight had just confirmed for him what a farce his marriage had become. Did Belinda seriously think he didn’t know? Not that he really cared that much what she did, but his constituents would, and he was up for reelection soon. He couldn’t take risks of that magnitude.
As he entered his office he saw a stack of mail on his desk. That was unusual: Effie usually opened it all. But Jason had suggested he let her go home and he’d agreed. Well, it could probably wait A long, cream-colored envelope with blue lettering caught his eye.
PHOTOS, it said in block lettering across the front. There were no stamps.
Who would be sending him photographs? He couldn’t think of anything he was expecting, any recent photo shoots or campaign pics or Wait, what was he thinking? This could be from the Cajun Cooking Fest last month in New Orleans. He’d only taken second place with his gumbo-the gold was taken by a jambalaya that he thought was markedly undistinguished-but that was just as well. It was probably best for publicity purposes if he appeared competent and versatile, and female constituents would love the fact that he could cook, but if he actually won, that might create resentment. Perhaps even the suggestion of a fix. No, second place was best, and if they got a pic of him in a messy apron tasting the gumbo, that would be great for a campaign ad to run in a daytime TV spot. Maybe during Oprah.
Still, it would be smarter to wait for Effie to come in. She knew about the rubber gloves and all the other stuff you were supposed to do these days when you opened the mail. It seemed stupid, but it wouldn’t hurt him to wait just a His cell phone rang. Those things were such damned annoyances.
He glanced at the cover and saw that it was his wife, Belinda, calling. That was unusual. “Belinda?”
A female voice crackled on the other end of the line. “Thanks for dinner, lover boy.”
“It was my pleasure.”
“I’ve been hoping we could become…closer. I’d like to think this is perhaps the beginning of a new era for us.”
“You would? Well, maybe it could be.”
“I sent you a gift. In an envelope. On Effie’s desk.” She was breathing heavily, practically purring into the receiver. “Photos.”
“Oh, that was you.”
“They’re photos of me.”
“Of you? Doing what?”
She giggled, the naughtiest laugh he ever recalled hearing in his life. “See for yourself. I think you’ll like them.”
“Give me a hint.”
She laughed again, a deep, lusty laugh. “Let’s just say that once you see those photos, I think you’ll be able to throw away those little blue pills that don’t seem to work well anyway. But this will. Ciao, baby.”
DeMouy suddenly realized he was breathing deep and fast. My God, maybe she’s right.
He couldn’t restrain himself. He picked up the envelope, slid his finger under the flap, and ripped it open.
A cloud of white powder rose into the air and swirled around his face. Senator DeMouy immediately knew he had made a horrible mistake.
He dropped the envelope as if it were on fire, but it was too late. He ran to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face and into his nostrils. He snorted it in and down his throat. What had Jimmy Claire told him to do during the security briefing? He could hardly remember. Oh, yes-don’t open the mail. Not much help now. Or if you do, use protection. He had to get to the infirmary. Maybe there was an antidote or some kind of treatment.
He whirled around much too quickly. All at once he realized that he was dizzy, that the bathroom was swirling up and down like a roller coaster, which was really inconvenient because he was having a hard enough time concentrating without having the room gyrate.
His eyes began to bleed.
He tried to brace himself against the white porcelain sink, but his hand slipped and he went tumbling downward.
His chin bashed into the hard rim of the sink, jarring him into near insensibility. His mouth began to bleed. He felt chilled; then all his muscles started to spasm uncontrollably.
The poison had taken its hold. He couldn’t move. There was no one else in the office. And he knew ricin killed very quickly. There was no hope…
Wait! He heard footsteps out in the corridor. He knew those footsteps. Spike heels moving with determination and alacrity. That was his Belinda.
Through blurred vision, he saw his wife’s face appear in the haze above him. “Belinda,” he said, barely whispering. “Is it you?”
“Oh yeah. It’s me all right.”
“Help…me.”
“I’ll be happy to help.” He didn’t see her leg move, but a moment later he felt the impact of the toe of her pump driving itself between his legs. “Help you into oblivion.”
The pain was excruciating. Unconsciousness was creeping upon him. He couldn’t stop shaking. But he knew if he closed his eyes now, he would never open them again.
“But-how-?”
“That’s easy to explain.” Another face appeared in the haze above him. It was Jason! Jason Simic, his chief of staff. “She did it with my help.” His voice descended into a snarl. “You didn’t appreciate what you had, you ancient asshole. So now you’re going to lose her. And everything else. Putz.”
Belinda started to kick him again, but Simic stopped her. “Cool it, sweetheart. Fun as it might be-we don’t want to leave a mark. This has to look like an anonymous, long-distance ricin poisoning.”
A wave of darkness crested before his eyes, and hard as he tried to fight it, his eyes fluttered closed, just as he had predicted, never to open again.
“Is he dead?” Belinda asked.
Jason used the time-honored two-fingers-against-the-carotid for confirmation. “Very.”
“Shouldn’t we leave?”
“For now. You can discover the body, but not till I’m long gone. Give it at least half an hour. It will seem more credible if you don’t find him immediately.”
“We did it,” she whispered, staring down at the motionless body of her husband. “We really did it.”
“You had doubts?”
“I don’t know. Somehow, it didn’t seem real-until now. Watching him die. That was…”
“Disturbing? Traumatic?”
She placed her hands behind his neck and curled herself up against him. “Hot.”
He jabbed his hand between her legs. “Oh yeah?”
“Ohhhhh yeahhhhh.”
“Enjoy it, Danger Girl. This is one experience you won’t be having again any time soon.”
“God, I want you. I want you inside me.”
“That can be arranged. Just stay clear of the poison.” Less than a minute later, their clothes were in a heap on the floor and Jason was on top of her, caressing her breasts and licking the side of her face.
“Oh my God, Jason. Oh my God. I’m going to come.”
“Wait for me, darling.”
“I can’t. I can’t. I-” She looked to the side and saw her husband’s dead face, his eyes open and staring at her lifelessly, uncomprehendingly.
“I had fantasies about you being forced to watch,” she said breathlessly, as if her husband could actually hear. “I only hope that you’re somewhere in hell now, seeing the show.”
“I’m ready,” Jason whispered, pounding furiously.
“Oh, God, Jason. Oh yes. Oh, Godddddd…”
In the aftermath, an intern at the other end of the corridor would remember hearing her scream and the police would assume it was triggered by the shock of discovering her husband’s dead body. Only the two of them would know it was a scream of ecstasy, as Belinda DeMouy experienced the most powerful, most intense, and most satisfying orgasm of her entire life.
38
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION IN GEORGETOWN
Standing in the darkness of the basement, Loving reached toward the young girl’s shoulder. She involuntarily flinched; then, as if reminding herself what she was taught to do, she relaxed.
Loving could understand what must be racing through what was left of her brain. Very well. They could talk without touching. It would be better that way. She might actually trust him.
“Is anyone else here?” Loving asked in hushed tones. He had spotted the wooden staircase that led to the ground level of the house. The door at the top was open. “Any other grown-ups?”
“Miss Magda went to the grocery for food. She said if we were good, she might bring us candy.” The girl paused, her face expressionless. “But she always says that. And we’re never good enough.”
“What’s your name?”
The girl hesitated. “They call me Angela. But that isn’t my real name.” She spoke English with a pronounced accent-Russian, Loving thought, but he was really no judge. Under the circumstances, he was amazed she could speak at all.
“What’s your real name?”
Another long pause, and then she answered, “I don’t remember.”
“Do you like Angela?”
“I guess.”
“Then that’s what I’ll call you. I like it, ’cause it sounds like Angel. You’re a little angel.”
She didn’t smile. But Loving liked to think her face brightened.
“How long have you been here?” he asked, scanning the room full of girls.
“We didn’t come together. I’ve only been here a few weeks. That’s why I’m in charge.” Normally, that would seem like the exact opposite of the way any hierarchy would work. Unless, Loving imagined, you assume that life as an illegally trafficked sex slave is so hard that it puts the children on a one-way track to a permanent vegetative state.
“Do you know a girl named Djamila?”
Angela thought for a moment. “I don’t think so. But they make everyone change their names.”
Of course they did. The bastards. “Do you know a man they call the General?”
Angela’s back immediately stiffened. “Do you work with the General?”
“No,” he said hastily. “I do not. But I’m tryin’ to find him.”
“If you want a session, you should talk to Miss Magda.”
“I do not want a session,” Loving said, gritting his teeth. “But I want the General. Very very badly.”
“He will probably come tonight to collect the money. He usually does.”
“Do you ever get any of the money?”
She looked at him as if he had taken leave of his senses. “We are not allowed to carry money. If we had money, bad men would try to hurt us.”
Ah. Wouldn’t want you to be exposed to bad men. “Do they ever let you outta this stinkin’ basement?”
Again, she looked at him as if he just didn’t comprehend. “We like it in the basement.”
“You do?”
“We are safe in the basement. When the door opens-we must work.”
Now he was beginning to understand.
“At first, I liked it when the door opened and they called me by my new name. I would get a bath, maybe even a new dress.” She looked down at the tattered pinafore she was wearing. “But that was a long time ago.”
As her head lowered, Loving noticed a bruise on the back of her neck. He gently lifted her hair and took a closer look. More bruises. Gently, making sure she understood he meant no harm to her, he rolled back the left sleeve of her dress.
What he saw there made him sick to his stomach.
“How long before Miss Magda comes back?”
“I don’t know.”
“Damn.” Loving stood, glanced at the stairs and the door, then at the window through which he had entered. “Look, gather your friends and anything they need. We’re gettin’ outta here.”
“I thought you wanted the General.”
“I did. But now I think it’s more important that I remove you and your friends. So gather up all-”
“What’s going on here?”
Loving turned, swearing under his breath. A large brunette woman in a plain frock stood at the top of the stairs. Damn, damn, damn!
“Can I help you?”
She spoke with a thick Russian accent, but she was not nearly as old as he expected. Miss Magda had saved herself from a life of sexual slavery, he guessed, by going into business with the slavers.
“Uhhh…you Miss Magda?” Loving asked, trying to pull himself together as quickly as possible.
“I am. May I ask why you are here? In the basement?” Loving noticed that as soon as Magda entered, Angela slunk back into the shadows.
He grinned sloppily, doing his best to look like the sort of scum who might actually come here for a “session.” “Uhhh, sorry-I rang the bell but no one answered so I came on in. I’m here to do a little business. I understood you had some goods of particularly high quality.”
“I’m sure we can produce something you will find…pleasing,” she said. “May I ask how you came to know of our services?”
There was only one name he could produce. “I’m a friend of the General. Name’s Loving.”
“I don’t think I’ve heard him mention you.”
Keep treading water, he told himself, till you figure a way out of here. “Well, I guess we’re more business associates than friends, tell the truth. I handle his, uh, Southwest distribution.”
