Summens thought furiously. What was it she'd said exactly? Had she suggested he needed to see all sides of the story? It had been something like that. Christ, this was the only dose she had been entrusted with in a month and she was on the verge of blowing it, big time. "Senator, listen to me," she said in a clear, loud voice. He stopped talking, his attention riveted on her.
"The freedom of Union Island is the most important issue before the Senate right now. You must make it well known that you now support the Union Island Freedom Bill, and you need to put resources into corralling support for the bill. It must pass."
"Of course. it must."
"With enough votes to override a veto," Summens added. ''And there can be no amendments to the aid package."
"I won't let them trim so much as a single dollar," the senior senator agreed emphatically. "Union Island needs U.S. dollars just as fervently as it needs independence from the U.S." His old, wrinkled eyes drew together. "Now, why is that again?"
Summens patted his arm. "You'll come up with very clever arguments to support your position. You can't wait to get started."
The senator nodded, his posture erect with new purpose. "My dear, you must forgive me if I cancel dinner and our little tryst. I have suddenly realized how vital it is for me to get involved in this campaign immediately."
"Of course I am disappointed," Summens said, although the truth was she never intended to sleep with the man. "But I understand. It's for the cause."
Before she could suggest he not do it, the old slimeball had mushed his slobbering lips against hers. It was over in an instant, though, and he left in a hurry.
He'd better come through for her, she thought, or next time she'd suggest he go for a long walk off the short roof of the Congressional Office Building.
Summens was angry with herself. She had handled the senator badly. She could count on one hand the number of times she had been entrusted to perform a dosing alone, and this time she almost lost control. She'd probably ruined the senator's career as it was-his constituency might not go along with his new views on contentious issues. No matter, so long as he kept his job long enough to help ram through the Union Island Independence Bill.
She needed a good dinner to get the taste out of her mouth. She had reservations for two at Cafe Amore, but maybe she could just order in.
Then she remembered that the president would be trying to reach her in the office in a short while.
That was a very good reason to be anywhere else.
Chapter 12
"Sheriff Pilchard here," said the monotone voice on the other side of the door.
Greg Grom unlocked the dead bolt and tried to open the door, but the little brass security thingy brought it to halt. Grom closed the door again, silently swearing at the little brass thingy for making him look like an idiot. The worst thing ever was to look stupid.
"Sorry, Sheriff," he said to the unsmiling statue of a country sheriff.
"Quite all right." The sheriff followed Grom inside and sat without invitation in an easy chair in the parlor. "I don't suppose you'd accept a drink when you're on duty."
"I suppose I would. Scotch."
"Oh. Okay." Grom found a bottle of Scotch whiskey behind the bar and poured while his guest looked casually around the expensive suite.
"Some room, huh?" Grom observed sheepishly.
"Cleaned up a triple in this room 'bout nine months back," the sheriff announced.
"What's a triple?" Grom asked, sucking on a bottle of Corona beer.
"Homicide."
The beer went into his lungs, and he hacked it up for two minutes. Then he said, "I see."
"Looks like they recarpeted. Guess they would've had to." The sheriff chuckled without losing his dour expression.
"Yeah. Heh."
The sheriff looked Grom dead in the eye. "Guy used a fan blade off an International Harvester OTR rig." The sheriff shrugged and reclined with his drink. "It was convenient. Trucker had it parked at the motel next door. So the guy just tore it off and came in here swinging the thing."
"Imagine that," Grom said.
"Not a sharp edge to it. Took some work on the murderer's part. Made a hell of a mess."
"I bet..."
"Poor trucker started his rig the next morning and heard this awful noise and popped the hood. Found his fan all out of whack and some of it missing and he reported the vandalism. That's how we know what we know."
Grom had been trying desperately to think of a way to steer the conversation in a new direction, but now he said, "You mean you didn't find the weapon."
"Oh, yeah. Few weeks later. Twenty miles outside town alongside the road in a culvert. Couldn't get prints or anything useful off it by that time. So, well, you know."
"I know what?" Grom demanded.
"You know, we couldn't positively ID the killer. Know who he is, of course, but the son of a bitch is walking around free as a bird until we get physical evidence ...and what was it you wanted to talk to me about exactly?"
Grom drank more beer as he tried to catch up to the conversation. "What about the Big Stomp?" he finally managed to ask.
The sheriff nodded, revealing nothing, but his cooperation was a foregone conclusion. The man wasn't stupid enough to not cooperate with a man like Greg Grom.
"The investigation continues," the sheriff said. "There was an interesting development at the crime scene."
"Like what?"
"The crime scene was infiltrated. Based on the evidence at hand, we're fairly certain the Nashville Azzopardi Family has formed a joint venture with aYakuza branch. Their purpose is undoubtedly to launch a protection business specializing in high-profit, private, unregulated businesses, such as the Big Stomp. Their interest in our crime scene is obvious-whoever poisoned the well needs to be taught not to tamper with organized-crime businesses in the Kentucky-Tennessee district. In other words, they want to find the bad guy before we do."
"Oh." Grom's head was swimming. "Do you think they will?"
The sheriff finally showed an emotion in the form of a smug twitch of the colorless lips. "Mr. Grom, we're professionals. Highly trained. Superbly equipped. We're not going to be outsmarted by a bunch of import thugs."
Grom let out a silent sigh, nodding with what he hoped looked like dispassionate satisfaction.
"Good to know you people are on the job," he said condescendingly as he walked the sheriff to the door. "What did these men look like, anyway? The men who came to the crime scene?"
"Well, that's not an easy one to hammer down. Nobody seems to have gotten a good look at their faces. But I'll tell you this much. One of them was a Far Easterner, old as Moses and no bigger than my dog Bert when he gets on two legs to give me a face lickin'. Other guy was just some white feller. I guess he must look like all us white fellers."
As the sheriff was on his way out the door, Grom asked, "That's the best description you have?"
"We have other clues to their identity," the sheriff said, and told Greg Grom about the federal IDs.