With Malice. Rachel Lee

all the ugly maneuvering around the nomination and confirmation of a woman for the vice presidency.

      Cautionary tales, perhaps?

      His choice in music was eclectic, from Jimmy Buffett to Beethoven. She almost smiled at that. Her own tastes were also eclectic, a little of this and a little of that.

      “Karen?” called a voice from the front of the house.

      “Yes?”

      “The senator’s here.”

      “Let him in. I’m coming.”

      She met Grant Lawrence in the foyer. The first thing she noticed was how grave he looked. How somber. But also how well controlled.

      He shook her hand. “Please thank the officer out front for me,” he said. “He kept the press at shouting distance.”

      She half smiled. “I wish he could keep them in Timbuktu, but I don’t have the authority for that, so we’ll settle for shouting distance.”

      He responded with a faint smile of his own.

      “Do you just need to go to your children’s rooms?”

      “Well, I could use some of my own clothes, if that’s okay. And I’ve got a couple of spare suitcases in my closet to put things in.”

      “That’s okay. I’ll go with you, if you don’t mind.”

      It was not a request, and she saw that he realized that. He nodded. “Any idea when I get my house back?”

      “Criminology has to release it. It might be a few days.”

      They began ascending the stairs together.

      “It’s not,” he said, “that I’m eager to come back here. In fact, I’d rather not live here ever again. But my daughters…they’re going to need the stability. So I guess I have to come back, at least for a while.”

      She reached in her pocket and handed him the business card of a cleaning service. “These people will get rid of the mess.”

      He paused on a step and looked down at the card. “Thanks. You know, it never would have occurred to me that this kind of business exists.”

      “It’s an ugly world.”

      He didn’t answer, and she looked at him from the corner of her eye. His face had become stony, as if he was fighting some terrible internal battle. Then he shook his head and tucked the business card in his slacks pocket.

      They went first to his bedroom, to get the suitcases. She stood diffidently to one side as he pulled them out and threw a few of his own clothes in them, suits, shirts, underwear, some casual clothes.

      Then she followed him to the girls’ rooms, where he emptied drawers and closets of every wearable thing. The suitcases full, he carried them downstairs and put them by the front door. Karen stood on the landing and watched.

      When he returned upstairs, his face seemed even grimmer. He pulled out duffel bags from the closet in the playroom, stuffed their pillows in one, then began to go through the toys, deciding which to take.

      That was when Karen, unwillingly, began to feel her own heart ache for this man and the burden he bore. He lingered over each toy, as if remembering some special moment.

      For the first time she realized that even his children’s toys held memories of Abby for him. Saddened, she looked away.

      “Okay,” he said. “I’m all set. I’ll get out of your way.”

      She helped him load the duffel bags and suitcases into his car. The determined reporters, who had lingered all day, shouted questions their way. Karen looked at Grant and saw in his eyes that he’d come prepared to speak to them, like it or not.

      “Shall we do it together?” she asked him.

      “Are you allowed to speak for the department?” he asked. Obviously he was familiar with the ins and outs of official spokespersons.

      “I only wish they’d give me a P.I.O. on this,” she said. “Unfortunately, I’m it. So yes, I can speak for the department. Whether I want to or not.”

      He smiled, a brief flicker of the smile that half of America knew so well. It was even more impressive face to face, warm and open. Then the smile died. “I guess we’re both here, whether we want to be or not.”

      Karen signaled to the officer at the police line, and he raised his hands to get the reporters’ attention. Once Grant’s bags were in his car, she accompanied him to the cordon. A flurry of shouted questions greeted them, but she merely looked on in stony silence until they quieted.

      “As you’re aware,” she began, “Abigail Reese was murdered in the residence of Senator Grant Lawrence last night. Ms. Reese lived in the residence, and had lived and worked with the Lawrence family for sixty years. This is obviously an ongoing investigation, and I’m not going to discuss details, except to say that we have a number of leads and we are pursuing them. Senator Lawrence has agreed to say a few words, but please understand that he will not discuss the details of the case, either. And keep it brief. His family is grieving, and he’d like to get back to them.”

      She turned to him. “Senator?”

      The change was almost palpable. He was still the same wounded, somber man who’d walked into the house a few minutes before. But he was also Senator Grant Lawrence. He spoke with calm, quiet dignity.

      “Abby Reese was at the very heart of my family. When my parents had to be away on location, Abby was there. Whenever I had a heartache or a joy, Abby was there. She was there when I graduated high school and college. She was there when I married Georgie. She was there when my children were born. She was there when Georgie died. And the very last thing my daughters did, before going to bed last night, was to call Abby to say good-night. There are no words to describe our loss. And frankly, I’d rather not have to find them. Suffice it to say that I have lost a lifetime mentor, friend, surrogate mother and companion. And I will miss her always.

      “I will, of course, cooperate fully with the Tampa Police Department in their investigation of this brutal and senseless murder. I have no doubt that they will find the person who did this terrible thing. And now I’ll try to answer a few of your questions, but as the detective said, my family is grieving and I want to get back to them.”

      “How was she killed?”

      Karen spoke up. “Again, I won’t discuss details of the investigation at this point. The medical examiner and criminalists are still gathering and reviewing evidence.”

      “Was it a burglary?”

      “It’s too early to tell,” Karen said. “Burglary is one possible motive we’re looking at, yes.”

      “Senator, will this affect your intention to run for the presidency?”

      She saw him bristle. “I haven’t announced any such intention yet. And that’s the furthest thing from my mind right now.”

      “Will you hire another black housekeeper?”

      Now his nostrils flared. “There would be no way to replace a lost family member.”

      “And that’s enough,” Karen said.

      “Is this related to your wife’s death?”

      The senator drew a breath, as if calming himself, then locked eyes with the reporter. “I won’t even dignify that with a response. My wife died in an auto accident.”

      “That’s enough,” Karen said again, slipping an arm in front of him to drive the point home. “The department, and I’m sure the senator, will discuss further developments as they arise. Thank you.”

      She pivoted on her heel and drew him toward the car. “I’m sorry, Senator.”

      He nodded. “I’m used to it. It is, unfortunately, part of the price of