With Malice. Rachel Lee

the more expensive, “all natural” items that were never more than a niche market.

      Senate Resolution 52 had to fail. Not to make Randall Youngblood rich—he was already rich—but to keep America fed, fit and strong.

      He was ruminating on that thought when Bill Michaels knocked at his door.

      “So where do we stand?” Randall asked.

      Michaels had that look in his eyes again, the look of a lion on the fringe of a herd of gazelles. “I think we have an angle to play.”

      Randall nodded for him to continue.

      “The media’s going to spin Lawrence as the victim of yet another personal tragedy. They’ll bring up his wife’s death. Hero conquers adversity and all that.”

      “Right,” Randall said.

      “Well, there’s a rumor that the public didn’t get the whole story when Lawrence’s wife died. They don’t have anything specific. Just that certain lines of inquiry were deflected, very obliquely, very discreetly.”

      “Could be something,” Randall said. “And it could be nothing. And it could be something that’ll make him even more the hero.”

      “That’s true. And obviously we don’t want to open that can of worms before we know what the worms look like. But I’ve got a man looking into it.”

      “Anything else?” Randall knew something that vague wasn’t enough to get Michaels’ blood pumping.

      Michaels, ever the performer, let the moment hang for just a beat longer. “Yes. My source also says there’s something fishy about the nanny’s death.”

      “Fishy how?”

      “He doesn’t know yet,” Michaels said. “But the lead detective—a woman named Karen Sweeney—doesn’t like the smell of it.”

      “Stay on it,” Randall said. “And stay invisible.”

      Michaels smiled. Randall hoped he himself would never be the object of that particular smile.

      “I’ll handle it, sir.”

      Grant Lawrence called the homicide squad himself in the late afternoon. It felt strange to do it, rather than have someone else handle it for him, the way so many things in his life were handled for him, by people who seemed to be in a conspiracy to protect him from the ordinary details of his life.

      He had secretaries, both in Washington and in his public offices here. He had Jerry Connally, his right hand. All of them seemed to want to handle everything for him, sometimes even including his political duties. Occasionally he felt hemmed in. Mostly he was grateful to be able to keep his focus.

      But today he made the call himself. A supplicant, which wasn’t a familiar position for him anymore. But he sure as hell didn’t want to bring Jerry into contact with the police more than necessary, and he knew if he called his secretary at the local office, she would have a ton of messages from the press, constituents and colleagues. He wasn’t ready to deal with any of that.

      So he called robbery-homicide and asked to speak to Detective Sweeney. Much to his amazement, she was there.

      “Yes, Senator,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

      “I was wondering if I might be able to get into my house. There are some things I want for my daughters. Frankly, Detective, they need the comfort of the familiar right now. Their own clothes, their own toys, their own pillows and blankets. I left Washington in such a hurry this morning that I didn’t even pack for them, other than bringing Belle’s favorite stuffed animal and Catherine Suzanne’s blanket.”

      “I understand.” Her voice remained detached. “Let’s see…I’ll be leaving here in about an hour. How about I meet you at your house in an hour and a half?”

      “That would be fine. Thank you, Detective.”

      “No problem, Senator.”

      But as he hung up, he realized it might be a problem for her. Through the detachment of her voice, he had sensed great fatigue. Well, she’d been up most of the night. He brushed away the concern that he was imposing even more on her limited time. His girls came first, and he wasn’t going to let their needs go unmet.

      The phones at his parents’ house had been ringing most of the day, and the line he had been on rang as soon as he hung up. The family wasn’t answering. His parents’ assistant, Keith Fairfield, was taking all the calls and messages in the office four blocks away, through the magic of call forwarding. Poor Keith. He was probably ready to tear his hair out…as were his own secretaries, now that he thought about it.

      He was going to have to speak to the press at some point. There was no escaping it. At the very least, he needed to issue a statement. He realized without guilt that he was trying to avoid what had happened, unwilling to address it head-on.

      He shook his head as if trying to clear it, feeling the fatigue of a sleepless night and the unbearable weight of grief trying to bend him, break him. It would be nice to let go, but it wouldn’t do any good. Nor could he afford to.

      The girls were outside with their grandparents, splashing in the pool, resilient as only the very young could be. He watched them for a few minutes through the glass doors, a faint smile lifting the corners of his mouth. His daughters were his raison d’etre, even more than the political career to which he devoted so much of his time and energy. It did his aching heart good to see them enjoying themselves, to see that they could escape the grief that had haunted their lives, even for a little while.

      Then he went to dress for his meeting with Karen Sweeney, well aware that the press would be there, and would demand an answer to the stupidest question in the world: “How do you feel, Senator?”

      He shook his head again, feeling as if cobwebs clung to his brain, and dressed for television because he was going to be on television whether he wanted to or not.

      So he wore dark slacks and a dark shirt. He took a few minutes to shave, but he would be damned if he’d put on a suit. They were just going to have to take him as he was.

      Karen Sweeney awaited him inside the house. The criminologists were still working the scene, although their number had shrunk considerably since the early hours. Now they were down to Millie and her team, working the two rooms they were sure had been invaded, leaving no dust ball unturned. Millie’s thoroughness was famous, though there weren’t many dust balls. Apparently Abby’s thoroughness had been famous, as well.

      “How’s it going, Millie?”

      The taller woman straightened and rubbed her lower back. A grimace creased her features. She was in the senator’s home office, checking out the carpet. “I think we’ll be done in a couple of hours.”

      “Find anything that sticks out?”

      “Well, I’ve got enough latents to start my own fingerprint bureau. God knows how many people go through this house on a given day. The file cabinets were jimmied with a crowbar, though. It’s like somebody tried to pick the locks, gave up in frustration or because of time, and just laid into them with a metal bar. The senator needs better cabinets.”

      “I got the impression that the stuff here is mostly copies of things for his personal use. He probably isn’t worried about anyone getting into it. He said there was nothing important there.”

      “Somebody sure had a different opinion.” Millie sighed and pulled off her rubber gloves. “I’m going out for a smoke. If any of my team start looking for me, they can find me out front.”

      “Okay.”

      Left alone in the senator’s office, Karen walked around, taking in more detail than she had that morning. A stereo and TV were hidden in an armoire on one wall. Putting on gloves, she opened it all the way and looked inside.

      Apparently the senator enjoyed thrillers. He had a stack of DVD movies, among them All the