Maggies eyes swept over the room, trying to capture as much information as she could. Hardwood floors. Minimal furniture. Paintings on the wall: Holiday Inn prints rather than art. A coffee table bearing two large books: aerial shots of the earth and an atlas. No photos anywhere. It looked unlived in, like a corporate rental. It felt empty.
Is this how it was, officer? Maggie asked. Or have you taken anything away?
The policeman turned around, his bulk seeming to fill the room. Unsmiling, he seemed offended, not so much by the content of the question as at the very idea that he had to talk at all. Nothing has been removed from this area, as far as Im aware. Some items were taken from the bedroom for further forensic examination. He concluded with a glare. No more questions.
Rigby had already moved across the ground floor and was on the first step of the spiral staircase to the bedroom, apparently grateful for the chance to take a second look around, even if it had cost him an extra few hundred dollars.
Maggie followed, peering into the kitchen/diner area, which stood at the rear of the open-plan living room. The breakfast bars surface was spotless. She flipped open the oven: apparently unused.
By now, she was lagging behind. She could hear Rigbys footsteps through the ceiling. He was doubtless standing at the spot where Forbes had been found dead.
She clanked her way round the wrought-iron staircase, emerging onto a small landing giving onto three rooms: bathroom, bedroom and a small study.
She remembered another tip from Nick du Caines. First place any profile-writer heads to is the bathroom, he had said during their rapid-fire tutorial. Bloody goldmine in there. Ask to go to the loo and then check the meds cabinet. Viagra? You can then saunter out and ask your interviewee sensitive questions about impotence. Rogaine? Very nice, especially if youre doing an actor. But the motherlode is Xanax. Or Prozac. Or Lithium. Thats very heaven. You put on your most caring face and ask if the rumours are true: Are you currently being treated for depression? Jack-bloody-pot.
Maggie darted in, noted the cleanest shower curtain shed ever seen, and opened the medicine cabinet: empty, save for one tube of toothpaste and a can of shaving foam. No brush, no razor.
Across the landing, she could see Rigby standing in the centre of the bedroom, apparently photographing every surface he hadnt caught last time.
She looked into the study. Even through the doorway she could see that it was as full as the downstairs was empty. Side on was a glass desk, dominated by a vast computer screen. It was flanked by two others, each angled into the other. As she got nearer, she saw shelves packed with what looked at first like the toys of an adolescent boy: a remote-control helicopter on one, a couple of miniature cars on another. Only after a few seconds did she see that both carried small cameras.
She looked towards the bedroom, anxious that she not waste time: the officer would declare the visit over at any moment and she needed to have seen it all. She looked under the desk to see a curtain of cables, dangling in space, connected to nothing. So those were just monitors on the desk; the police must have taken the machines.
She heard a creak, the sound of Rigby leaving the bedroom.
She passed him on the landing. Ill just take a quick peek.
You want to focus on the beam by the window, he said, in a show of helpfulness. Thats where it happened, he said, miming the shape of a noose. Then he headed, camera in hand, for the study.
She stepped in, bracing herself. But there was no need. This room was as soulless and empty as the one downstairs. A bed, a side table, an old-fashioned armoire. No photographs anywhere.
Knowing the futility of the move in advance, she pulled open the drawer of the bedside table: empty. If there had ever been anything in this place that might have shed light on Vic Forbes, the police had clearly removed it. What Maggie had assumed was going to be a crucial first step not a breakthrough, but a start was turning out to be a dead end.
A raised voice from half-way up the staircase. The cop: We need to clear this premises in the next ninety seconds.
It was then that she heard it.
The first sound came so soon after the policeman had spoken that she assumed that it must somehow be connected to him: perhaps an alarm he had triggered, or a Taser being warmed up.
But when the second buzz came, she could tell that it was much closer. It was inside this room.
No longer moving gingerly, she yanked open the armoire. A row of suits: mostly grey, some dark blue. She rifled through them, each one revealing precisely nothing. (And not, she noticed, a dress or garter belt to be seen. Police must have taken those too.)
She wheeled around, looking first at the bed, then staring up at the beam where Rigby had told her Forbes had been found dangling. Nothing.
She squatted, checking the floor of the closet, her hand patting furiously in the dark, feeling for anything that might explain that noise. Straightening up, and on tiptoes, she checked the top shelf, again using crude touch to do the searching. Nothing.
Then it came once more, a low buzz, lasting no more than two seconds.
She patted her own pocket, feeling for her phone. She pulled it out, but she knew that was pointless: her phone was set to sound, not to vibrate.
Come on. Rigby was at the door. Were leaving.
The cupboard door was still open, standing as a barrier between them, preventing him from seeing her hands. And it was her hands that realized what had been slow to reach her conscious brain. They began groping at the pockets of the suits, one after another until, at last, inside a jacket whose scent was different from the others, they found what they were looking for.
Turning to face the man from the Enquirer, she shone what she hoped was her warmest, most engaging smile even as she closed the cupboard door with one hand while the other took the small device and, without daring to look at it, slid it into her own pocket.
18
Washington, DC, Wednesday March 22, 22.15 So now its your decision.
Turning to face the man from the Enquirer, she shone what she hoped was her warmest, most engaging smile even as she closed the cupboard door with one hand while the other took the small device and, without daring to look at it, slid it into her own pocket.
18
Washington, DC, Wednesday March 22, 22.15 So now its your decision.
I know.
Youve spoken to colleagues. They say youll have the full weight of the Republican party in Congress behind you.
They say that. You know how much verbal agreements are worth in this town.
I do, sir. Theyre not worth the paper theyre written on.
That one word had done it, as she surely knew it would. Sir. Said like that, in that sweet, eyelash-fluttering way of hers. He felt his loins stirring. This little routine he had with Cindy always turned him on, but she was playing it more expertly than ever tonight, the demure-yet-pert Southern belle with a hint of sauce beneath that courtly exterior. She only had to call him sir in that educated Charleston accent, and he was transported back to the nineteenth century: he was master of the house and she was bending over to submit to his will
He looked at his watch: ten fifteen. He would have to act fast. But still he wanted to go through the arguments one last time. If this is to work, Cindy, then the Forbes stuff is critical. Its just the lunatics right now, but we have to make the base believe. Tell me again. Whats Rush been saying?
Hes saying the American people have the right to raise questions. No more than that.
Beck?
Good. He interviewed an expert on murder cases that were faked to look like suicide.
So you think this could stick? If Im to make this move, our folks have to be dead certain that Stephen Baker had Vic Forbes killed.
Obligingly, Cindy turned around, giving him a chance to see her from behind, and bent over to retrieve a piece of paper from her briefcase taking rather longer to do so than was strictly necessary.
We dont have many allies down there, not after- She paused, reluctant to say the word that had inflicted such damage on Republicans. After Katrina. Governor Tett is ours, obviously, but hes surrounded by Democrats. Especially in New Orleans itself.
Journalists?
The good news is that the National Enquirer is sniffing around.
That is good news.
If theres something to find, theyll find it.
He looked out of the window, contemplating the long sweep of twinkling lights that was the American capital. He watched the slow red winking at the top of the Washington monument.
You do realize how serious this is, dont you, Cindy?
I do.
This is the big one. Its the bunker-buster. If we get it right, Baker will be finished.
And you, sir, will only just be started. She fluttered her eyelashes again, signalling a return to character. Strike me hard if Im wrong.
That was it, the surge of lust was now too great to resist. Senator Rick Franklin glanced down at the portrait on his desk, the one that showed him and his four children smiling warmly at the lens, while his wife of eighteen years gazed adoringly up at him: the full Nancy Reagan, as that particular pose was known in the political communications industry. He turned the picture face down, so that it lay flat against the wood, right next to the discreet statuette he had received when he was anointed a Hero of the American Family by the Christian Coalition.
He looked at his watch. If they were quick, there was time.
Now, Cindy, I am about to follow the rules of this house and administer the punishment that you deserve. First, is the outer door of the office locked in the usual fashion?
It is, sir.
Second, are you wearing that underwear that you know tempts your master?
The one sir calls the eyepatch?
Thats right.
Yes, sir. Im ashamed to say I am.
They were practised enough, the Senator and his aide, that they could run through the whole ritual all the way to climax (his) in a matter of minutes.
Once it was done, he felt ready to make the move that he knew would define his career and might well alter the course of American history. He zipped up his fly, buckled his belt and nodded that Cindy, now straightening her stockings, should stay.