Capitol Scandal [042-4.6]

By: Sarah Gregory

Synopsis:

The crime: murder. The accused: a wealthy Texas congressman. The victim:
a young intern with whom he was having an affair. Attorney Sharon Hays
is reluctant to defend this charismatic politician--for highly personal
reasons. Now she must either withdraw from the case, confessing to the
secrets of her own past--or remain silent and defend a man she has every
reason to hate...
"A maze of plot twists... plenty of courtroom atmosphere."--



Also by Sarah Gregory:

The Best Defense Public Trust In Self-Defense


CAPITOL

SCANDAL

A SIGNET BOOK


Prologue

Washington, D.C.

Joggers in the nation's capital fall into two categories, political and
passionate.  Political runners are less than dedicated, their regimen
limited to an occasional tour of the loop around the mall, where they
hope to see the President working out.  On most days the Man is nowhere
in sight, the result being that political runners accumulate stone
bruises and muscle pulls while watching other un notable joggers pass
by in the opposite direction.  Their gaits are best described as the
Congressional Waddle or the Presidential Prance.

Washington runners of the lean and mean variety shun the mall in favor
of Rock Creek Park, which features fifteen miles of wooded trails
winding all the way into Maryland.  Such was the case with Roger Derr
and Barbara Peterman, who left their BMW near the P Street Bridge at 4
a.m. one early December Sunday, and set out on their morning trot in
twenty degrees.  The couple lived together in Georgetown.

Both held master's degrees in engineering and both were into designing
computer chips.  Roger had competed in one New York City Marathon and
Barbara was determined to enter the women's division the following
year.  They wore reflecting white insulated jogging suits.
Battery-operated lanterns were molded into the crowns of their soft
leather headgear.

The park didn't open until seven, so the lovers planned to avoid the
main entrance and catch the trail a quarter mile in.  Stretching,
loosening up, lifting first one knee and then the other, their breaths
fogging as they stepped carefully over patches of ice, the couple used
wooden steps to negotiate the steep incline alongside the bridge.  They
touched each other a lot.

As they neared level ground, a man in evening clothes came out of the
woods.

So much did the unexpected meeting startle the joggers that they later
disagreed in their descriptions of the man; Barbara insisted that the
stranger wore a tux even though Roger was just as certain that he had
on a dark formal suit.  Both agreed that the encounter seemed to rattle
the stranger as much as it did them, and that as he passed them by
without a word he averted his face.  He was breathing heavily, as if
from exertion.  Leaves and twigs clung to his jacket and were tangled
in his hair.  He quickened his pace, running up the embankment,
slipping once in his formal shoes, reached the pavement, and melted
into the darkness on P Street.  In seconds a starter chugged, an engine
caught and raced, and headlights stabbed the night as a car drove away.
Roger and Barbara jogged in place for a moment, debating whether to
continue.

Their dedication to running won out, and the couple trotted on in among
the trees.

The lovers' jaunt was a short one, for them at any rate, an eight-mile
jog along the banks of Rock Creek to the zoo and back again.  The
exhilaration of near top-speed running drove the meeting with the
stranger from their minds.  As they neared their original starting
point they watched for the crooked stick which Roger had left upright
in the ground, marking the shortest route through the woods to their
car.  Sunrise was a couple of hours away.  Roger was a few strides in
the lead.  His bobbing head lantern illuminated the knobby stick.  He
made a quick left turn and charged off among the trees.

"Race you," he called out playfully.

Barbara accepted the challenge, shrieking in delight, ignoring the
small branches tugging at her clothing as she zigged and zagged her way
through the woods.  At the center of the couple's relationship was a
hot competitiveness, usually culminating in frenzied lovemaking.

Barbara grimaced, lust building within her, her breath coming in ragged
gasps as Roger's lantern bobbed and weaved ahead of her.  This morning
she would show him something new, would mount him right there in the
BMW at the edge of P Street, would ride him into submission until,
writhing in pleasure, he would beg her to stop.  You are in for it, Mr.
Derr, she thought as the uneven ground jarred her from head to toe.

Barbara Peterman, M.E. from North Carolina, once known as Miss
Conservative all over the freaking campus, is about to fuck your brains
out of your .. .

Fifty yards short of the clearing where the wooden steps led up to P
Street, Barbara Peterman's foot struck something solid.  She fell
headlong.

The sleeve of her jogging suit scraped rough bark,

skinning her arm without tearing the cloth, but otherwise she wasn't
injured.  Prone on the ground, her nose buried in frozen leaves, icy
frost melting and soaking into her clothing, Barbara felt nothing so
much as dumb.  How could she be so stupid?  She rolled over quickly and
sat up, using a thumb and forefinger to aim her lantern toward whatever
had tripped her.

The beam illuminated a smooth-shaven leg bent at the knee, and a
slender foot with painted toenails.

Shivers parading up and down her backbone, Barbara hoisted herself
upright.  The body over which she stood was that of a young woman,
wearing a backless and sleeveless sequined cocktail dress.  The girl's
skirt was bunched around her waist; she wore no pantyhose or underwear.
Her skin in the light from the lantern showed a yellowish tint, rapidly
turning blue.  She had short dark hair and her neck was bent at an odd
angle.

A branch had fallen over her upper torso, partially obscuring her face.
Barbara bent from the waist and moved the branch aside.  There were two
silver dollar sized holes in the dead woman's head, one through her
cheekbone and the other through her forehead.

Both wounds oozed blood and grayish matter.

Barbara Peterman's scream split the frosty silence, followed by the
sound of her retching as she vomited on the ground.  Roger Derr heard
her as he jogged in place near the road, and quickly retraced his steps
to stand beside his lover.  He stared dumbfounded at the spectacle on
the ground, placing a comforting arm around Barbara's shoulders.  He
never suspected that before she made the grisly discovery, he'd been in
for a mind-blowing lay.


On the last day of October, Sharon Hays flew home to Texas from
California.  In five short days she'd become a celebrity, clearing one
of America's best-known actresses, Daria Cowan, from murder charges in
a hearing televised around the globe.  The attention made Sharon
nervous.  When fellow travelers on the 747 shot glances in her
direction, then averted their gazes and whispered among themselves, she
felt like hiding under her seat.

Sharon's newfound fame had her torn.  Part of her wanted to take the
limelight, appear on Leno, give every interview requested, take all the
high-profile cases that were certain to be offered.  But she was a
single mother with a daughter to raise, and Melanie's critical teenage
years lay dead ahead.  Sharon pictured Melanie taking dope, staying out
all night, giving in to a succession of eager boys as her mom flitted
blithely around the country.

The image made Sharon want to stick her head in the sand up to her
shoulders, and never leave Texas again.

Washington, D.C.

The D.C. metropolitan police detectives assigned to investigate the
corpse in Rock Creek Park were named

Virginia Toledo and Isaac Brown, and as partners were a study in
opposites.  Ginny Toledo, small and olive-complexioned, held a degree
in English from American University.  She'd signed on with the police
department seven years earlier because nighttime work allowed her to
pursue her master's during the day, but tuition funds had waned shortly
thereafter and she'd taken the detective's exam out of necessity.

She was married to a Virginia highway patrolman and lived on just the
other side of Arlington, and had long since abandoned her dream of
becoming a teacher.

She did, however, carry a small tape player in the unmarked detectives'
sedan, and listened to audio books en route to and from crime scenes
while her partner suffered in silence.

Isaac Brown had been to college as well, though he didn't have a
degree.  A six-foot-four, two-hundredandninety-pound black man, he'd
been an all-ACC offensive lineman at the University of Maryland.  He'd
skipped his senior season, opting for the pro draft, and the Seattle
Seahawks had picked him in the third round.  A training camp knee
injury had ended his pro career before it had gotten off the ground,
and he'd migrated into police work twelve years ago.  Now thirty-three.
Detective Brown continued to pump iron with a passion, and his massive
neck and sloping shoulders turned a lot of female heads.  He'd learned
police procedure from the ground up, beginning his career as a guard in
the metropolitan jail, and subscribed to the
kickin'-ass-and-takin'-names theory of law enforcement.  Many cops
called him Ram-Bro.


Ginny Toledo, properly brought up and politically correct, considered
the nickname racist and referred to her partner as Ike.  Detective
Brown didn't act as if he cared either way; Ram-Bro, Ike, all the same
to him.

The detectives questioned Barbara Peterman and Roger Derr without
learning a great deal; the lovers' description of the man they'd seen
was sketchy at best, though they did agree to drop by headquarters the
following day to look at photos.  Toledo and Brown then supervised the
uniforms' securing of the crime scene, waited for the medical examiner
to pronounce the victim dead, printed the corpse, and bagged its hands,
and stayed with the body until the meat wagon hauled it downtown to the
morgue.  This task completed, the detectives filled out report forms
and called it a day.

The Washington Post run a one-column story about the unidentified
corpse on Page Two of its Metro section, and the story produced a
positive ID around ten o'clock the following morning.  The identifying
party was named Melissa Rudolph, a curvy twenty-year-old student living
in Arlington, who appeared at police headquarters with the newspaper
folded and tucked underneath her arm.  Though she wore jeans with holes
worn in the knees, dirty white sneakers, and a frayed man's shirt with
the tail out, her hair and makeup were perfectly fixed.  She had pretty
soft features and had retained some baby fat in her cheeks.

When the morgue attendant pulled the shroud aside, Miss Rudolph
murmured tearfully, "Gee."

A half hour later.  Detectives Toledo and Brown interviewed Miss
Rudolph in a small office adjacent to the squad room.  Her hands
trembling as she sipped canned Dr.  Pepper through a straw.  Miss
Rudolph told the detectives that the victim was her roommate, Courtney
Lee.

"How long since you've seen her?"  Brown asked.

He spoke in a pleasant rumbling basso.

"Saturday afternoon."  Melissa Rudolph's voice was soft, an educated
Texas twang.

"What time?"

"Around two.  Wow, I can't believe this."

"How long had you and Miss Lee been living together?"

"Just since school started.  August.  But I've known Courtney since
first grade."

The detectives exchanged a look.  Toledo said, "In Texas?"

"How did you .. . ?"  Miss Rudolph showed a sad smile.

"Oh, yeah, my accent.  Yes, Baytown."  She pronounced "accent" as
"ack-say-yent," as if the word had three syllables.

Brown kept his tone sympathetic.

"You young ladies came up here to go to college?"

Miss Rudolph set down her drink and twisted her fingers together.

"Oh, no.  This is my junior year, but Courtney just moved here.  She's
been going to

S.M.U."

"In Dallas?"

Miss Rudolph nodded vacantly.

Brown glanced at the tape recorder.

"The machine won't record a nod, miss."

"I'm sorry.  S.M.U."s in Dallas, yes."

"She was a transfer student?"

Miss Rudolph quickly shook her head.

"Courtney is taking, was taking a year off.  She's been interning for a
congressman.  I should tell you, her dad and Mattie Ruth Benedict are
close."

Brown lifted her eyebrows.

"Senator Benedict?"

"Yes, sir."

Brown looked at Toledo as if to say.  Oh, Christ.

Mattie Ruth Benedict (D-Tx) was the current Senate Minority Leader and
one of the president's main legislative supporters, the previous
midterm election having placed the Democratic Prez in the hands of a
Republican Congress.  Mattie Ruth's Texas-twanged rally speech at the
most recent Democratic Convention had wowed 'em across the country, and
had solidified her reputation as a no-nonsense, acid-tongued but regal
lady.  Her husband Paul, a former U. of Texas law professor and now a
power in a corporate firm, was a leader in 'the fight against Big
Tobacco.

Mattie Ruth had one son.  Will John Benedict, a junior congressman in
his first term.  Hardly a day passed when Mattie Ruth, Will John, or
Paul Benedict wasn't mentioned in the D.C. social pages.  Metro police
hated cases where public officials became involved;

often the red tape choked the investigation beyond repair.

Toledo's interest picked up.

"It's been our experience that interns, what interns we've come in
contact with, are generally children of party supporters.  Donators
..."

And hell raisers.  Brown thought.  When he'd worn a uniform he'd busted
a few interns, mainly during parties after neighbors had phoned in
noise complaints.

Daddy always made bail.  A call from a senate or congressional aide to
the U.S. Attorney generally caused the charges to disappear.  D.C. cops
now considered such arrests a waste of time, and usually let the
offenders off with warnings.

"You couldn't expect anyone to live on Courtney's pay."  Miss Rudolph's
nose wrinkled.

"Six hundred or something."

Rents in the area where Melissa Rudolph lived were twice that figure.

"Supplemented with funds from home?"  Toledo said.

Miss Rudolph nodded.

"Courtney's daddy and my daddy are partners."

"In what?"

"A law firm, Rudolph, Lee & Stickelmeyer.  Mr.

Stickelmeyer isn't in the office much.  He's a state senator in
Austin."

Toledo's features softened.

"Would you care to notify the next of kin?  Normally we do that, when
it's someone local, but .. ."

Miss Rudolph sniffled, about to cry.

"I couldn't face Mr.  Lee.  I'd prefer not to."

Detective Brown straightened in a businesslike posture.

"When you saw your roommate on Saturday, was it at your apartment?"

"I was just leaving.  My boyfriend's at Annapolis, and he had
liberty."

"We'd like to visit your place and go over Miss Lee's things," Brown
said.

Miss Rudolph shrugged, a sad but pretty gesture.

"Just let me know when."

"When you spoke with her," Brown said, "did she indicate she was going
out?"

"She borrowed my dress."

"A sequined cocktail dress?"

"Yes, sir."

"I have to tell you, miss.  It's what she was wearing when she .. ."

"I know.  It said so in the paper."

"That's right," Brown said, "it did.  The dress is evidence.

You understand that?"

"I wouldn't dream of wearing it anyway, sir, after what happened."

"It will be in our property room.  Did she tell you where she was
going?"

There was the barest nicker of Miss Rudolph's lashes, a slight aversion
to her gaze.

"I'm not sure."

Brown exchanged a glance with Toledo, then leaned forward to rest his
forearms on his thighs.

"We sympathize this is a shock to you.  but this is a murder
investigation.

To withhold anything from us would be a mistake."  Toledo's look at
Brown was disapproving.

He acted as if he didn't notice.

Miss Rudolph hugged herself, trembling.

"I

wouldn't want to get anyone in trouble."

"Someone's already in trouble.  Miss Lee.  She's dead."

Miss Rudolph watched her lap.

"Courtney went to a lot of parties."

Unblinking, his expression stoic.  Brown said, "Parties where drugs
were present?"

Miss Rudolph looked away.

"I don't know anything about ..."

"Miss Rudolph," Toledo cut in, "we're not the narcotics bureau.  We're
looking into a homicide.  But we find where drugs are a factor it give
us certain options.

where to point the investigation."  She smiled.

"Only the killer has anything to fear from us.  Drugs would be
incidental."

Some of the tension left Miss Rudolph's look, but not all.

"She didn't go, like, I'm doing good dope here or doing it there.  But
a couple of times she brought some home."

"From the parties?"  Brown asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Who threw these parties, miss?"

"Gee, Courtney was into older people.  Those she met at work."

"At the congressman's office?"  Brown's jaw was set.

"There and .. . You know, people she met around the Capitol
Building."

Brown ignored a sharp look from Toledo and bored on in.

"What people?"

"Specifically?"

Brown expelled air.

"I've got to tell you.  Miss Rudolph, you sound evasive.  This is
probably your first encounter with law enforcement.  But this is
serious business."

"I got stopped a few times in high school," Miss Rudolph said.

"Back in Baytown?  Where everyone knew your father?"

She showed a half smile.

"He's pretty well known."

"This isn't Baytown, miss, and we deal every day with people a whole
lot more famous than your father.

Obstruction of justice isn't funny."

She seemed confused.

"Obstruction of .. ."


"It's where you know who's selling dope, commit 3

ting murder or whatever, the police ask you and you feed them a line of
shit."

"Ike," Toledo said softly but urgently.  Brown held up a hand and
waited for an answer.

Miss Rudolph shifted uncomfortably.

"Would anyone know who told you?"

"Not just if you told us where she was going," Brown said.

"But if you witnessed something, and later had to testify, that would
be different."

Pretty gray eyes watched the corner of the room.

Finally the coed told them, "Courtney was seeing a married guy.  A guy
like, pretty old."

Brown shrugged.

"How old is pretty old?"

"Thirty-five at least."

"What's his name?"

"Benedict."

"Mattie Ruth Benedict's son?  The congressman?"

She nodded.

"Will John Benedict.  She's interning in his office.  If this gets out
back home it will be so not cool..  ."

"Will John Benedict gave the party?"  Brown asked.

"I don't know who gave the party.  But that's who Courtney's like, been
seeing."  Miss Rudolph frowned anxiously.

"Mattie Ruth doesn't know.  Will you tell her?"

Brown's jaws clicked together.  Toledo leaned nearer the girl, nodded,
and said tenderly, "Under the circumstances, we have to."

A tear ran down Miss Rudolph's cheek.

"Daddy was right."

"Fathers often are," Toledo said.

"Why, what did he tell you?"

"It wasn't just Courtney who wanted to be an intern.

I did, too.  Daddy wouldn't hear of it.  He told me, any man turning
his daughter loose with that Washington crowd was just throwing her to
the wolves.  I told Courtney what he said, and then Daddy and Mr.  Lee
had this big fight over it.  Nearly broke up their partnership."  Her
look was pleading.

"Look, Courtney wasn't bad or anything."

Brown's scowl disappeared, replaced by a look of understanding.

"Someone was.  Thanks, Miss Rudolph.

Your cooperation is the first step toward finding out who."

Any investigation involving the Capitol Hill crowd was a hot potato
within the department, so Brown and Toledo reported to their shift
commander as soon as Melissa Rudolph left the building.  The shift
commander was a young lieutenant named Morgan Reece, who covered his
butt by calling the brass upstairs.  The duty clerk punched him through
to the Chief of Detectives, who canceled his lunch appointment and met
with Toledo, Brown, and Reece during the noon hour.

The C of D's was Howard Morganthal, a granite-faced man with steel-gray
hair.  He was a former Secret Service agent who'd guarded the
President, and often appeared on the evening news.  He listened
carefully as the detectives detailed their progress up to now, then got
right to the point.

"What have we told the press?"

Shift Commander Reece handed the ball off.

"I'll let you answer that one, Mrs.  Toledo.  Save us having to repeat
ourselves."

Toledo crossed her legs and folded her hands.

"As of now, zilch.  They ran the usual unidentified body piece this
morning."

"From now on," Morganthal said, "everything on this case comes through
me.  What's your next step?"

Toledo now deferred to Detective Brown.  The huge black man sat at
ease.

"To get the guy in here for questioning," Brown said.

Morganthal swiveled his chair to look out the window, at traffic
rolling by on Pennsylvania Avenue, at men and women pouring out of the
lobby over at the Justice Building, hunching their shoulders against
the cold, tiny snowflakes swirling down like confetti.

"What guy is that?"  Morganthal said.

"The boyfriend.  Congressman Whoever."

Morganthal jabbed his finger in the air.

"Not at this point.  Not Mattie Ruth Benedict's son, no way.  At the
most, you call his office and make an appointment."

Brown looked at Toledo, who lowered her gaze.

Brown leaned forward.

"Begging respect, sir, but giving him time to get his story straight,
that's not our priority."

"If you call him in," Morganthal said, "he won't come.  He'll send his
lawyer.  Then you'll have no story, period, straight or otherwise.  If
he does talk to you, you say up front it's a murder investigation, give
the decedent's name and why you believe Congressman Benedict has
information you need.  If he plays solid citizen and opens up, more the
better.  If he stonewalls, turns you over to a bunch of aides, that's
when you start waiving subpoenas.  This is not Willie Dickwagger from
the Southeast Sector.  This is a guy whose profession is ducking
issues."  He rubbed his eyes, and pinched the bridge of his nose
between a thumb and forefinger.

"Damn these politicians.  If they could learn to keep it zipped,
there'd be a helluva lot less trouble in the world."

The C of D's kept his back turned as Shift Commander Reece and
Detectives Brown and Toledo looked at each other.  Toledo got up and
walked over to the window.  Her hair was short and nipped up in back.

"Not just politicians, sir," she finally said.

"You could make that statement about any number of men."

Detective Toledo called Congressman Will John Benedict's office in the
Russell Building while Brown tried to reach the victim's family.  The
black policeman obtained the number for Rudolph, Lee & Stickelmeyer.

Attorneys, through Baytown, Texas information, but Courtney Lee's
father wasn't in.  He wasn't expected back until the following Monday.
Brown asked if he could call Mr.  Lee at his residence.

"Sorry, sir," the switchboard operator told him, "but I'm not
authorized to give out Mr.  Lee's home number."

Brown left his name, number, and extension, then hung up and looked at
Detective Toledo.  Their desks butted up so that Brown and Toledo faced
each other.

The pretty female cop looked concerned.

"That's odd," she said.

Brown tilted his chair and folded his arms.

Toledo dumped a package of Sweet'n Low into a Styrofoam cup of coffee,
and reached for a plastic stir stick.

"Benedict's in.  Won't talk to anyone, but he's in.  I left my
number."

Brown spread his hands.

"What's odd about that?

Politicians don't talk to anybody they don't know."

"What's odd is that he's in in the first place.  Congress isn't in
session.  They're in the ten-week break after Thanksgiving, until the
day after the State of the Union address, end of January.  Most of them
leave town, go back home to spend the holidays with their families and
constituents."  Toledo finished stirring, sucked the end of the
stirrer, and dropped the plastic stick into the wastebasket.

"Drum up campaign funds.

Merry Christmas and fork over, bud."

"Unless they've got something going around here," Brown said.

"Such as some poon tang

Toledo blinked.

"How delicate.  What's the area code for Baytown, Texas?"

Brown gave her the area code, and Toledo called Congressman Benedict's
office in Texas after getting the number from information.  She winked
at her partner as she listened to a series of rings over the line.

Her chin lifted as she said, "Yes.  This is Annie Proux with the
Houston Chronicle.  I was wondering if it would be possible to set up
an interview with the congressman and his wife.  A series I'm doing,
how our representatives are spending the holidays."  She listened,
sipping coffee as she did.  She said, "Well when will he .. . ?  I see.
And Mrs.  Benedict, is she in town so she'll be available to .. . ?
Thank you.  No, I'll call back.  I'm in and out of the office, so my
number wouldn't help you much.  Thanks."  She hung up, thoughtfully
drumming her fingers.

"The Honorable Will John Benedict has been spending the holidays back
home, but came to Washington last Friday and won't return to Texas
until this Thursday."

"Leaving his old lady in Bumfuck, Egypt over the weekend?"  Brown
asked.

"Baytown, Texas."

"What's the difference?"

"He came to Washington alone," Toledo said.

"Hey, Ginny, when you left your number at his Washington office.  You
tell 'em you were the heat?"

Toledo nodded, one corner of her mouth tightening.

Brown pointed a finger.

"Lay you odds he doesn't call you back.  You might hear from his
lawyer.  Him, no way."

Toledo pushed her chair back and stood.  She lifted her handbag by its
strap.

"My thinking exactly."  She took a couple of paces toward the exit,
then stopped and turned.

"You coming, or what?"  she asked Detective Brown.

Two hours later.  Brown and Toledo were parked on South Capitol Street
in between the Rayburn and Longworth Buildings.  Straight ahead on the
Capitol lawn, trees had an eerie look as snow piled on leafless
branches.  The detectives had been sitting there since making the
ten-minute drive over from headquarters.

Brown started the engine occasionally so that the heater would warm the
car's interior.  Detective Toledo was listening to an audiocassette of
Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier.  Detective Brown suffered in
silence.

Brown held the House of Representatives' pictorial directory in his
lap, open to the B's.  Will John Bene diet was a white guy with soft
cheeks and a double chin, and with a shock of blondish hair swept down
over his forehead.  Brown closed the book and laid it aside, and looked
across the street just as Congressman Benedict came out of the
Longworth Building.

Or pranced out, actually, wearing a gray collarless sweatshirt,
sweatpants, and blue running shoes, jogging in place, lifting his hand
and offering political smiles to pedestrians who hurried past on the
sidewalk.

As the congressman broke into a loping gallop, headed north toward
Independence Avenue, Brown turned and said to the couple in the
backseat, "There's our man.  You recognize him?"

Roger Den- and Barbara Peterman had agreed to sit with the detectives
during lunch hour, and had grown more and more antsy as time went by.
On two occasions they'd threatened to leave, but Brown had talked them
into staying by promising to put in a word with the couples'
supervisors.  Roger and Barbara were dressed in business suits and
topcoats.  His suit was navy blue.  Hers was gray with a skirt which
stopped three inches above her knee.  Both topcoats were beige London
Fogs.

Roger watched the congressman's fast-retreating backside.

"It's the guy."

Barbara was less than certain.

"I don't think so, Roger.  The man the other night was shorter.  A bit
broader as well, I think, though a cumber bund can deceive you as to
someone's build."

Roger's smile was tight.

"He wasn't wearing a cumber bund sweetie.  He had on a suit."

Barbara's tone showed just a hint of exasperation.

"A cumber bund darling.  A bow tie and studs."

Roger dropped all pretense of being loveydovey.

"It was a suit, Barb.  A fucking Armani."

Barbara folded her arms and looked the other way, toward the Capitol.

"A tux, you asshole.  What are you, blind?"

Detective Brown wondered how the couple's upcoming wedding would go. He
exchanged a meaningful look with Detective Toledo.  Both cops got out,
walked forward, and met in front of the auto's hood.

Isaac Brown's breath fogged the air.

"I don't think they'll be very good witnesses."

"At least for sure she won't be," Toledo said.

"What do we tell the C of D's?"

Brown glanced toward the backseat, where Roger Derr and Barbara
Peterson seemed ready to square off and come to blows.

"I think the guy shows more perception," Brown said.

"His ID of the suspect is plenty good enough for me, Ginny."

"I'd like to have her more positive," Toledo said.

"So what do you think?"

Brown shrugged as Will John Benedict rounded the corner and vanished
behind a building.

"Appears the congressman's been naughty."

Toledo chewed her lower lip.

"Looks that way," she said,

As soon as his meeting with Brown, Toledo, and their shift commander
was over.  Chief of Detectives Howard Morganthal looked a number up in
his Rolodex.

He called and made an appointment.  Then he speed-dialed his wife and
told her he was working late, attending a meeting with the Commission
on Violent Crime.  Finally he told his assistant that he was knocking
off for the day, checked his Buick Electra out of the police garage,
drove southwest out of the city, and crossed the Theodore Roosevelt
Bridge into Virginia.

A half hour later he passed under a wrought-iron arch and cruised down
a blacktop lined with cherry trees.  White wood three-rail fences
marked off polo fields, horse and dairy barns.  Landscape rolled gently
into the distance.  The snow fell heavily now, and soon the whiteness
would blanket the ground.  Forecasters had predicted a bitch of a
winter.  Straight ahead loomed a Colonial house with tall white
pillars.

He parked in a circular drive and climbed up onto a wide brick porch.
His hands were deep in his overcoat pockets and his shoulders were
hunched.  He pressed a button, and a maid in a starched uniform
answered the door.  Morganthal told her, "Harry Fry to see Ms.

Carboneau.  She's expecting me."  The maid nodded, took Morganthal's
coat, and hustled off to the rear of the house after telling him to
wait in the entry hall.

The C of D's strolled past a six-foot grandfather clock, breakfronts
with pewter cups and crystal goblets stacked inside, and paused at the
foot of a carpeted staircase.  On the wall hung a cluster of large gilt
picture frames.  Inside the frames were blowups of Rita Carboneau's
books.  Each had been a huge bestseller, and each dust jacket had the
author's name across the top in letters larger than the title.  On a
mahogany counter below the frames stood copies of the books themselves.
They were unauthorized biographies of three movie stars, one talk show
host, and one former President of the United States.  Rita Carboneau
was known--behind her back, never to her face--as the Duchess of Dirt,
and the New York Times review of her latest book had appeared under the
headline, if

YOU CAN'T SAY SOMETHING NICE, SIT HERE NEXT TO

rita.  Her syndicated twice-weekly column appeared in two hundred
newspapers.  She credited most of her tidbits to "anonymous sources,"
though she'd acknowledged input from a Secret Service Agent known as
"Harry Fry" for her graphic descriptions of the ex President sexual
conquests.  Only after consultation with the publisher's lawyers had
she confessed that "Harry Fry" was a pseudonym.

Howard Morganthal's salary as C of D's was eighty six thousand dollars
a year.  The payments on his Georgetown condo were five thousand
dollars a month.

His wife was the current president of the Junior League, his daughter a
freshman at Duke and a TriDelt pledge.  Enough said; Morganthal's
legitimate income didn't stretch very far.  He turned from the literary
shrine as Rita Carboneau bubbled into the room.

The face was ageless--though her books had been published over a
twenty-five-year period, making her fifty if she was a day--and the dye
job on her short raven hair was undetectable.  Her waist was trim.  Her
blue silk lounging outfit molded around firm thighs and tented over
upturned breasts enhanced with silicone.

As she took Morganthal's hands and allowed him to kiss first one cheek
and then the other, expensive jewelry clinked.  The aroma of Enigma
wafted up Morganthal's nostrils.  She led the way into a den with a
stone fireplace above which oil paintings hung.  At her direction
Morganthal occupied a leather chair.

Rita Carboneau sat on a chintz sofa and curled up her legs.  The maid
brought apricot brandy in tiny stemmed glasses, and set the drinks on a
teakwood coffee table.

Rita Carboneau sipped.

"It's been too long.  Why have you been such a stranger.  Harry?"

"Howard."

Carboneau cut her eyes toward the maid's retreating backside, and
imperceptibly shook her head.

"Harry is a nickname," Morganthal said, watching the maid as well.  He
tweaked Carboneau a bit by saying, "Kitty Kelley's latest is all the
rage."

She wriggled testily.

"Yes, The Royals.  Have you read it?"

"I don't have much time to read."  Morganthal held his glass in both
hands with his elbows on his armrests.

"Don't bother with The Royals.  It's crap.  I could have done much
better."  Her eyes widened.

"What brings you here?"

"A murder case."

Carboneau shrugged.

"Washington is the murder capital of the world."

"This murder is going to grab a lot of headlines, once the news gets
out."

"A lot of murders grab headlines."  She seemed nonchalant.  For the
information on the ex-President's extracurricular fucking, Rita
Carboneau had paid Morganthal twenty-five thousand dollars.  Since then
he'd learned that the sum was a pittance, and that she'd forked over
three times that amount for information on a certain movie star.  On
this occasion,

Howard Morganthal would use fancier footwork at the bargaining table.

"Our suspect is high profile," Morganthal said.

One plucked eyebrow arched.

"Is the President involved?"

"Not yet."

"Damn."

Morganthal set down his brandy and hitched around in his chair.

"This could be bigger than the President."

"Oh, come on, Howard."  Carboneau gave a shoofly wave.

"Nothing's that big."

"We have a young half-naked woman.  A grisly butchering.

Sex, infidelity ..."

"So far you haven't shown me a book.  A magazine article, perhaps."
Carboneau touched her hair.

"A family that's a household name."

"The Kennedys?  Hah.  They've been done to death."  Her voice lowered
an octave.

"Besides, how can you offer me an exclusive?"

"I've already arranged it," Morganthal said.

"My detectives .. . Everything flows through me.  Everyone will have
the general news, of course.  But inside info?"

Carboneau's mouth twisted sensuously in a look of lust.

"Is it Teddy?"

"Not the Kennedys.  Not them at all."

Carboneau's breath quickened.

"Give, Howard.  I'm not going to blow you for the information, if
that's what you .. ."

Morganthal assumed a crafty posture.

"For this you might."

She sat stiffly erect.

"Nice seeing you, Howard."

His eyes widened.

"Must I call Kitty Kelley?"

"She's out of the country."

Morganthal sat back and regarded her thoughtfully.

"It's the Benedicts, Rita."

Carboneau was obviously shocked.

"Mattie Ruth?"

"Her kin."

"Christ, Howard.  Paul?"

Now it was Morganthal's turn to look puzzled.

"Paul's her husband," Carboneau said.

"He's known around town as Bull One."

"Bull?"

"God, Howard, you are out of the loop.  Just mention the nickname to
any number of women.  Paul Benedict is hung like, unbelievably."
Carboneau's eyes grew big and round.

Morganthal's curiosity got the best of him.

"Are you speaking from experience?"

Carboneau put her feet on the floor, then crossed her legs.

"None of your fucking business.  Come on, Howard, is it Paul?"

Morganthal had a knowing look.  Rita Carboneau would claim personal
knowledge of anything inside the Beltway, including some mover and
shaker's dick size.  The C of D's felt slimy, just talking to this
woman.

"Not Paul," Morganthal said.

Carboneau was incredulous.

"It can't be the wuss."

"Wuss?"

"The congressman, Mattie Ruth's son.  Will John Benedict.  That guy
can't even spell sex.  Rumor is, he won't even touch his wife that
way."

"Our evidence thus far says you're wrong," Morganthal said.

Carboneau opened a drawer and pulled out a pack of Virginia Slims.  She
unwrapped the cellophane ribbon.

"Christ, Will John Benedict?  Christ, Christ, Christ, Christ, Christ."
She popped a cigarette into her mouth, and paused with her thumb on the
flint wheel of a Bic disposable.

"Let's talk turkey, Howard," she said.

"If it's really the Benedicts, and you can really supply information
exclusive to me--and those are pretty big ifs, by the way--then there
might be something we can do."


On the second Tuesday in December, Sharon Hays used part of her fee in
the Daria Cowan case to buy a car.  She settled on a three-year-old
Buick Skylark, two-tone blue with twenty-eight thousand miles on the
odometer, and paid sixty-eight hundred bucks after haggling with the
used car manager at Don Snell Buick for a couple of weeks.  She'd
agreed on the price the previous Friday, but had spent the weekend
agonizing over trading in her dented old Volvo.  The Volvo had been her
transportation for eight long years, the car in which her daughter
Melanie had grown into teen hood  As the salesman drove the heap to the
rear of the lot, Sharon stood beside her shiny late-model Skylark and
wiped away a tear.

She rode to downtown Dallas in comfort, listening to a stereo system
with no static in the speakers for a change, yet continued to pine for
the Volvo.  To hell with it, she thought, it was a piece of junk.  She
stopped by AAA Bail Bonds to drop off a check and pick up bail
documents for two of her clients, a burglar named LaTarrance Williams
and a drunk driver named Willis Clay.  She then proceeded to the Lew

Sterrett Justice Center adjacent to the Crowley Courts Building, both
mammoth structures on river bottom land west of downtown.  She parked
in the courts building lot and hustled over to the jail in muggy
seventy-eight degrees under an overcast sky.  Nowhere else but Texas
did one sweat profusely in the middle of December.

God, wasn't winter ever going to come?  She entered through double
doors and stood at the bail release desk.  The lone attending sheriff's
deputy was at the back of the office with his feet up, watching
television.

Sharon flopped her briefcase onto the counter with a bang and loudly
cleared her throat.  The deputy didn't seem to hear.  She harumph-ed a
second time.

The deputy looked at her over his shoulder.  He was in his early
twenties and wore a thin mustache along with wire-framed glasses.
Sharon knew the guy by sight, but couldn't recall his name.

"A minute, okay?"

he said.

"It's the Benedict deal."  He squinted at her.

"Oh, it's you.  Miss Hays."  He got up and walked quickly in her
direction.  The metal tag above his pocket identified him as Deputy
Kinsolving.

The sound on the TV was too low for Sharon to hear, but the picture
told her all she needed to know.

It was the daily White House press conference, and the attending
newsies would be firing questions about the Chief Executive's position
on the looming murder investigation targeting Will John Benedict.  No
one had charged Will John with a crime, but the leaks to the media had
already convicted him in the public eye.

Last night Jay Leno's monologue had consisted of one joke after another
about the case, none of which Sharon thought were very funny.  The
press conference vanished from view, replaced by a head and shoulders
shot of Will John alongside a photo of what's-her name the victim. Poor
Mattie Ruth, Sharon thought.

As the deputy approached she said, "That's about all you can get on TV.
I've gotten sick of the whole thing."  She also thought that the media
was really feeding at the bottom by speculating on the dead girl's
sexual history.  The supermarket tabloids were having a blast.
Yesterday's Inquisitor had featured a college student on the cover, his
lips parted as if in shock, and the caption had read, "Courtney's
college lover:

Whipped cream her specialty."  The kid looked like a moron, and Sharon
wondered how much the tabloid had paid him.  Every time she heard Will
John Benedict's name mentioned, Sharon had twinges of guilt that she
hadn't felt since law school.  She rolled her eyes at the TV, unfolded
the bail bonds, and spread them out on the counter.

"Could you let these little guys out for me, please?  They tell me they
don't like your crossbar hotel very much."

The deputy spun the papers around so that he could read the prisoners'
names.

"I got to tell you.  Miss Hays, this is developing a lot of respect for
you."

Sharon leaned over the counter and looked down at the bail bonds.

"Excuse me?  Taking care of these two characters is developing
respect?"

The deputy waved a hand as if batting mosquitoes.

"That you still take the time for cases like these.  Most lawyers, when
they get famous, they don't have time for the little guy no more."

Sharon blushed in spite of herself.

"Come on, I'm not that famous.  Had my fifteen minutes like everyone
else in the world, but hey.  Six months from now, no one will remember
my name."

"Those people remembered you."  The deputy jerked his thumb in the
direction of the TV set.

"You knew those Benedicts, huh?"

Sharon frowned in puzzlement as she looked at the television.  A
commercial was in progress, the adorable Chihuahua saying, "Yo quiero
Taco Bell."  Sharon said to Deputy Kinsolving, "Yes, as a matter of
fact.  Paul Benedict taught me in law school in Austin, back when
Mattie Ruth was State Comptroller.  Will John was in my law school
class.  But how did you .. . ?"

She trailed off as the commercial ended and her own picture appeared on
the screen.

It was footage she'd seen umpteen times before, her hair disheveled and
her clothing askew as she led Daria Cowan down the Los Angeles Criminal
Courts Building steps on the day of Darla's release from custody.

If they had to splash her image all over hell and gone, at least they
could have chosen a more flattering pose.  The picture changed, now
showing Russell Black as he stood before a bank of microphones, and
Sharon recognized this footage as well.  It was Russ's press conference
on the day of Midge Rathermore's acquittal, two years ago.  Now Mattie
Ruth Benedict's photo appeared, her grayish hair perfectly fixed, her
features firm, in her eyes the look of eagles.  Sharon blinked.

What was going on?

She pointed to the rear and said to the deputy, "Could you pump up the
volume on that?"  As he turned, however, another commercial came on,
and

Sharon said, "Never mind.  You have any idea why they were showing mine
and Russ's pictures?"

The deputy looked incredulous.

"You don't know?"

"I've been running all morning," Sharon said.

"Haven't seen the TV news or read the paper."

The deputy grinned.

"I think you're just being' modest, Miss Hays.  It's been all over
every channel.  Accordin' to the paper, and accordin' to Mattie Ruth
Benedict's news conference last night, if Will John Benedict gets
indicted you and Russell Black are defendin' the guy."

Sharon hastily posted her bail bonds and then hurried from the jail.
Normally she would have waited for her clients' release and told both
of them to come to her office tomorrow, but her curiosity was bursting
at the seams.  LaTarrance Williams and Willis Clay would have to fend
for themselves.

She drove the mile and a half in stop-and-go traffic, drumming her
fingers impatiently at every delay, and pulled into the parking garage
across from her office at a few minutes before 11 a.m. The parking
garage was a converted gas station across from the back of the George
Alien Courts Building, which was the former criminal courthouse but now
served as the arena for civil suits and probate matters.  Sharon's
office was catty-cornered from the Alien Building.  She killed her
engine, grabbed her belongings, hustled out of the lot and through the
crosswalk.  Andy Wade waited in front of her building along with a
still photographer and a man in shirtsleeves toting a minicam.  Andy
was the court beat reporter for the Dallas Morning News and Sharon's
best friend in the media, but this mo ming she hadn't the time even for
him.

"Not now, Andy," she said as she approached.  The minicam operator
aimed his lens at her and the photographer's camera flashed.

"You don't have a comment?"  Wade had a pen and steno pad ready.  He
wore a pale blue shirt and black tie without a coat, and his stomach
pooched out over his belt.

Sharon paused with one foot up on the step.  The office was a walk-up
with a sign on the door reading, RUSSELL BLACK, LAWYER, with SHARON J.
HAYS, ASSOCIATE in smaller letters underneath.  Sharon said, "A comment
on what?"

Wade wrote something down.  He wore thick glasses in plastic frames.

"Does that mean that Mattie Ruth Benedict hasn't retained you?"

Sharon shifted her briefcase from one hand to the other and glanced
toward the office entry.

"What did Russ tell you?"

"The same as he always tells me.  No comment.  I'd think he would trust
me by now.  Miss Hays."

Sharon secretly agreed with the reporter; Andy Wade had been
instrumental in helping her and Black free an innocent man, Raymond
Burnside, from the death house.  Russ was unpredictable and always had
been.  Sharon said, "I suppose you've got another no comment then. From
me."

"Even more than Russell Black," Wade said, "I'd expect cooperation from
you."  His eyes were downcast and he looked as if his feelings were
terribly hurt.

Which they weren't, Sharon knew; Andy's skin was as thick as a
crocodile's.  He wanted something, anything, to put in the paper, and
if it took playing on her sympathy to get her to talk he wasn't above
it.

Sharon ascended to the second step and turned around.

"Once and for all.  You know as much as I do.  I first learned that we
might have something to do with the case about fifteen minutes ago,
over at the jail.  Since I don't know beans about what's going on, how
can I make a comment?"  She leaned impulsively over and kissed the
reporter's cheek.

"Love ya, Mr.  Wade," she said.

"But for now, that's all you're getting from me."

Sharon swept in through the reception area, which contained a desk but
no receptionist, and made a beeline for Russ's door.  Light showed
through the crack at the bottom.  She entered without knocking to find
Black on the phone'.  A console TV sat against the wall.  Sharon turned
on the set, muted the volume, and fiddled with the channel changer
until she tuned in CNN.  Clips of Mattie Ruth Benedict appeared, the
handsome senator at the podium as she addressed the Democratic National
Convention.  Sharon sat in one of Russ's visitor's chairs and testily
crossed her legs.

Black finished his conversation and dropped the receiver into its
cradle.

"Travel agencies aren't worth shootin'.  Man'd do better makin' his own
reservations."

Sharon glanced at the TV, which now showed Will John Benedict shoving
his way through a gang of media people as he tried to enter his office.
Will John had an angry determined look, and Sharon wondered if he'd
toughened any in the last .. . oh, ten years or so since she'd seen
him.  The ordeal in store for him was going to require more than just
being a nice guy, and Sharon felt a surge of pity.  Will John
Benedict's problem had always been that he was too nice; people who'd
never been through the judicial process couldn't imagine the pain and
humiliation.  Sharon said to Black, "Hi, boss.  Have you neglected to
fill me in on something?"

Black tilted his chair and intertwined his fingers behind his head.

"I suppose I have.  We might have a new case."

"So I hear.  From a deputy over at the jail, who heard it on
television.  The TV people in turn got their information from Mattie
Ruth Benedict's press conference.

Andy Wade was waiting for me outside the office, meaning everybody in
the country knows what's happening except me.  So I thought I'd check
with you."

Black looked apologetic.  He had blunt honest features and a square
chin, and Sharon thought her boss and mentor resembled nothing so much
as an old-time western lawman.  His down-home country-boy manner
shielded a legal mind second to none.  Russell Black at fifty was the
premier criminal defense attorney in the Dallas area, not to mention
one of the best in the country, and that Mattie Ruth Benedict wanted
Russ to defend her son would come as a surprise to no one.

Black said, "I was getting' around to tellin' you.  Mattie Ruth didn'
call me until yesterday afternoon, after you'd gone home.  She sends
her regards.  I didn' know that you knew her."

"I knew the whole Benedict family when I was in law school.  One of the
restaurants where I worked was a political hangout where Mattie Ruth
and Will John were regulars.  The father, Paul Benedict, was one of my
profs."  Sharon decided she'd better leave it at that.  Her dark hair
was short, with bangs in front.

She had deep brown eyes, and wore a conservative gray courtroom suit
along with matching spike heels.

She looked away.

"I wish you'd asked before you committed me on something that big,
Russ."

"Me and Paul Benedict go a whole lot further back than when you were in
law school."  On the wall behind Black's desk were his framed law
degree-University of Houston, Class of '69--and a photo of himself,
wearing jeans, standing behind a steaming pot at the Terlingua Chili
Cookoff.

Sharon frowned.

"You've never mentioned you were close with the Benedicts."

Russ showed a guarded look which was rare for him.

"Close in a business sense.  Personal's different.

My first year practicin' law, Paul and I collaborated on a case.  Kept
in touch ever since.  I know he taught in Austin several years.  I
should have realized it was during the time when you were in school
down there."

"I had him for Torts."  Sharon hesitated, then decided that to say more
about Paul Benedict would be a mistake considering Russ's obvious
respect for the man.

"I don't think I should get involved in defending Will John," she
said.

Black stroked his cheek as he looked her over.

"Mind tellin' me why?"

Sharon inhaled through her nose, and quickly decided on, "Christmas is
on us, for one thing.  I promised Mela- me we'd spend time together,"
which was as good a spur-of-the-moment lie as she could come up with.

"And part of doing what we do is in being' prepared for anything at any
time.  Criminal defense work dudn recognize the normal holidays.  Your
daughter understands that.  Besides, nobody said anything about missin'
Christmas.  We won't really have much to do until--and if--Will John's
indicted.  That won't happen till January if it happens at all.  Until
then you're talking a week in D.C."  no more than that."

"They'll indict him, Russ," Sharon said.

"If they weren't going to, they wouldn't be leaking all that
information to CNN."  She pointed to the TV screen.

"Leaks are one thing," Black said, "but this is a new wrinkle, even on
me.  Using that gossip columnist to break the story."

"Rita Carboneau is a whole lot more than just a gossip columnist. She's
a"--Sharon drew a pair of quotation marks in the air with her
fingers--"Washington insider, which means the public thinks she knows
things even if she doesn't.  It's through her that they've gotten the
Bull One nickname before the media.  Nothing's been said about the size
of Will John's penis, they're leaving it up to public imagination, but
the larger minds among us are tuned in to Jerry Springer and believe,
like father like son, you know?  Will John Benedict is going to be
faced with defending himself while the world laughs behind his back and
wonders how far his dong hangs down.  He doesn't deserve that, boss."

Black looked out the window across Jackson Street.

He was the easiest man to embarrass that Sharon had ever met, a trait
which she found endearing.

"You'd best get accustomed to the subject," Sharon said.

"If you handle the case, it's going to come up over and over."

"I know it," Black said resignedly.

"It's just going to take some getting' used to.  What's a nice guy doin
in Washington to begin with?  One reason I need you, you can deal with
this kind of thing better than I can."

"How flattering.  So I'm a woman who doesn't mind talking about penis
sizes in public, eh?"  Sharon grinned.

Her smile faded as she looked down, then back up.

"I wasn't kidding.  I don't think I should get involved."

Black sized her up.

"If you shouldn't, it's for some reason other than what you've said.
Something you're not tellin' me."

Sharon smoothed her skirt, measuring her words.

She said, "There are thousands of things I haven't told you, most of
which I'm never going to tell anyone.

Let it suffice to say, the Benedicts likely wouldn't want me involved,
either."

"Mattie Ruth Benedict specifically asked for you.

Fact o' the bid ness I got the idea the main reason she called was
because, one, she knows me, but mainly because you're my associate. You
got me playin' second fiddle, young lady."

Sharon permitted herself a grim smile.

"Mattie Ruth would feel that way.  It's the Benedict men who'd just as
soon they never saw me again."

"Which one is that?"  Black said.

"Every time I turn around, a different man jumps outta your past."

Sharon felt a surge of amusement.  Two years ago when they'd defended
Midge Rathermore, she'd had previous ties to the prosecutor and the
main investigator.

She doubted if Russ would ever get over it.

"I'll say this much," she said.

"There was never anything romantic between me and Will John Benedict.
Or Paul

Benedict, either."  She wondered if she should cross her fingers.  No,
she thought, the thing with Will John was strictly a one-way affair.
And as for Paul Benedict .. .

Sharon hugged herself as a tremor ran through her.

Mattie Ruth's image was front and center on the TV screen.  After all
this time, Sharon still felt uncomfortable facing Paul Benedict's wife
or even a picture of her.  She decided she'd better change the
subject.

Switching to what she hoped was a professional tone, she said, "In D.C.
you'll be dealing exclusively with the feds, you know."

"So I'm told.  There's no local D.A. in the District of Columbia, and
even the police are on the federal payroll.  All indictments are in
federal court, with the United States Attorney for the District of
Columbia representin' the people.  D.C. inmates with long sentences do
them in federal lockup."

"And all trials conducted under federal rules," Sharon said.

"The federal rules of evidence are quite a bit different from state
court, Russ.  You'll have your work cut out for you."

"Which is what I got my assistant for, keepin' up with the law and the
rules of court."  Black read something from his notepad.

"We got a reservation on American at seven a.m. in the morning, into
Reagan National.  There's a later flight but it goes to Dulles, out in
the boonies."

"Russ ..."

"I know, short notice.  You'll have to arrange for your daughter's
care."

"That's no problem and you know it.  All I have to do is call Sheila."
Sharon tried hard, but couldn't keep her eyes from misting.

"I shouldn't get involved in any case where I'm representing any of the
Benedicts.

Please don't ask me why.  But I shouldn't."

He studied her.  He assumed a hurt look.

"I'm not going to pry, Sharon, but at the same time I'm dependent on my
assistant.  You're my right arm.  I can't be trying any case,
particularly one to hell and gone away from Texas, without your
help."

She went through a range of emotion in a flash, opposing forces tugging
at her from both sides.  She owed her career to Russell Black.  At the
same time, any contact with the Benedicts might be more than she could
bear.  Not to mention that she could never be objective when it came to
Will John or any of his family, which could damage her effectiveness as
a lawyer.  She expelled a sigh as she made up her mind.

"Of course I won't desert you, boss, I owe you too much.  I'll go to
D.C. with you, and give it hell on the preliminary investigation.  Just
don't be surprised if I have to bow out if it comes down to a trial."
Her lashes lowered as she watched her lap.

"It's all I can say, and believe me, I wish I could tell you more.  But
my misgivings are so serious that you wouldn't believe."

Sharon decided that if she was going to leave town in the morning,
she'd better knock off for the day in order to pack and take care of
some things.  She cranked up her Skylark and drove to East Dallas with
a LeAnn Rimes tape vibrating the car's interior and her insides
twisting like a nest of boas.  She turned onto her street and drove
between old restored houses with winter-dead lawns, and had pulled
halfway into her drive when a thought occurred to her.  She applied the
brakes with a tiny squeak of rubber.

She backed out and toured the block and a half to the Winston place,
parked behind Sheila's Pontiac wagon, went up on the porch, and rang
the doorbell.

Sheila answered wearing ironed slacks and a fresh blouse.  Her glasses
hung from a chain around her neck.  The attire was about as formal as
Sheila got, which meant that she had a patient.

Sharon said, "Sorry to butt in.  Call me when you're done, will you?"
She turned to leave.

Sheila followed her out.

"We're almost finished now.  Why don't you wait in the living room?"

Sharon felt her nerve slipping.

"I'd be in the way."

"Nonsense.  I've already made plans to keep Mela- me , if that's what
you want to see me about."

Sharon's forehead wrinkled in puzzlement.

Sheila tilted her head.

"After watching the news, I assumed you were headed for Washington. Was
I wrong?"

Sharon relaxed.  God love Sheila to death.

"No," Sharon said.

"I'm catching a seven a.m."

"So, really, if that's all you wanted, it's taken care of.  But if it's
something else .. ."

Sharon expelled air through her nose.

"There is a little more."

Sheila watched Sharon intently.  The woman shared a sort of ESP, mental
telepathy which was nothing less than spooky.  Sheila said, "I think
you'd better come in and wait.  The lady in my office only thinks she's
got problems.  From looking at you, kid, I believe you're troubled for
real."

* * * Sharon sat in Sheila's parlor beside a sweet-smelling pine hung
with tinsel and ornaments, and read an article in Psychiatry Journal on
how to deal with children in single-parent families.  Sheila had handed
her the magazine--with the pages of the article clipped--on her way in
to finish up with her patient.  According to the MD author, it was
essential for the child to maintain a relationship with the absentee
father, a subject on which Sharon and Sheila had gone around and around
for several years.  Sheila wanted to help, Sharon thought, but every
single-parent kid didn't have Rob Stanley for a father.

As Sheila's patient, a well-groomed woman in her sixties, paid by check
and exited through the front door, Sharon dropped the magazine on an
end table.

She then followed Sheila to her office adjoining the kitchen and had a
seat.

The office was ultra professional with tasteful beige walls and muted
lighting, complete with a psychiatrists couch and a bookcase full of
medical volumes.

Sheila had moved her practice into her home several years ago.  She
didn't solicit business, handling only enough patients to pay the
bills, leaving plenty of time to raise her daughter Trish.  She folded
her hands on top of her desk.

"For a woman who's just snared the biggest case in America, you seem
awfully uptight.

What's wrong?"

Sharon had made up her mind to open up all the way.

"Plenty."

"Having to do with the case?"

"Having to do with who we're going to represent.

Mattie Ruth Benedict didn't hire me, she contacted Russ.  If she'd of
talked to me I would have declined, but now that Russ has accepted I
can't desert him.

I'm afraid I'll need counseling to get through this.  It's why I wanted
to see you alone."

Sheila leaned back, and rested her chin thoughtfully on her lightly
clenched fist.

"You want my professional help?"

Sharon nodded.

"With all the confidentiality the relationship carries.  With a
retainer to make things official."

"Yeah, okay."  Sheila took out a pad and pen.

"Give me a dollar.  I'll write you a receipt."

"I'm not looking for a price break.  I'd want to pay your regular
rate."

Sheila gave a gentle laugh.

"For you, my regular rate is a dollar.  I consider you a special
customer."

Sharon felt guilty, but fished a dollar from her purse.  Sheila tucked
the bill inside her desk and scribbled a receipt.  She tore the receipt
from the pad.

"So give."

"You're familiar with the Benedicts?"  Sharon said.

Sheila lifted, then dropped her shoulders.

"What I've read.  Texas's number one political family."

"Made so by careful planning.  Mattie Ruth worked in the State
Comptroller's office to put Paul Benedict through law school.  By the
time he'd gotten his LLD she was first assistant.  The Comptroller died
in the middle of his term and she became acting, and the Democrats sort
of drafted her into running in the next election.  She served four
terms, all while her husband taught at UT.  Law.  I had him for Torts,
let's see, about a year before Mattie Ruth ran for the Senate."

"The husband," Sheila said, "Paul Benedict.  According to what one
reads, he's the driving force behind the entire family."

"Yes," Sharon said bitterly.

"Aside from being the asshole of the century."

"Uh-oh."  Sheila looked concerned.

"You don't get your claws out very often.  I may not like what I'm
about to hear."

"When I was a first-year law student," Sharon said, "and Melanie was
about nine months old, I went to work at Nacho Louie's, a
bar-slash-restaurant just off Sixth Street in downtown Austin.  Mattie
Ruth and her son were every-night regulars, though I only saw Paul
Benedict in the restaurant occasionally.  If you can imagine a typical
Texas political hangout, Nacho Louie's was it.  We were only a few
blocks from the State Capitol, and all those state reps are aces at
letting their hair down.  Drink like freaking fishes, Sheila.  A lot of
good-ol'-boy backslapping and political bullshit, tempered with a fair
helping of graft exchange at the darker tables.  Mattie Ruth held court
at the Benedicts' special table, and if you listened with only one ear
you'd think it was a Ma Kettle comedy routine.  But if you cut through
all the B.S."  Mattie Ruth used her contacts at Nacho Louie's in
setting up her U.S. Senate campaign like the oldest of pros.  For
herself and Will John.  Forget the public image, Sheil.  Deep down,
Mattie Ruth Benedict is about as cornpone as Jackie 0. Will John was a
law student back then, but his mother was already building his network
of connections.  The truth is that he isn't particularly brilliant.

He's the kind of nice-nice guy that's easy to manipulate, and don't
think people didn't take full advantage."

Sharon lowered her lashes.

"I went out with Will John a few times.  It would've been better for
both of us if I hadn't."

Sheila lifted her glasses and sucked on an earpiece.

She didn't say anything.

"He was a good-enough-looking guy," Sharon said, "but.  God, the
hang-ups.  Complex piled on inferiority complex.  If you've ever felt
trapped in a relationship you'll know what I'm talking about.
Solicitous, God.

Flowers delivered to me at the restaurant about every day, little gifts
at my apartment.  The times we went out, the most expensive places in
town."

Sheila seemed incredulous.

"That's your idea of a bad relationship?  Like, mind if I cut in?"

Sharon laughed.

"Sounds like a slice of heaven, doesn't it?  It didn't work, Sheil.
Don't ask me why.  It was, this guy doing everything for me, but .. .
The bells just weren't ringing, you know?  He was just too damned sweet
to me, it was yes, Sharon this, and, yes, Sharon that.  The quote,
modern woman unquote, won't admit it, but things haven't changed that
much since the caveman.  Women simply don't want to feel totally in
control.  We don't want someone on a leash, and that's where the
relationship with Will John was headed.

"The week before I cut things off with him, I didn't sleep a wink.  It
was like putting your pet to sleep, crass as it sounds.  I rehearsed
all these speeches over and over, but in the long run there wasn't any
way to let him down gently.  I hurt him, Sheil.  I felt like Simona
Legree."  Sharon softened her gaze.

"In light of what's been on the news lately, many women would feel that
I shouldn't have terminated the relationship without first getting a
look at what was in his pants."

Sheila bent nearer.

"Is it really that big?  God, those news stories ..."

"I don't have the slightest idea, but every woman in America is likely
wondering at the moment the same thing you are, even if they'd never
admit it at the dinner table.  I'll tell you something.  In spite of
his public image.  Will John Benedict is scared to death of women.  The
times we were together he never tried anything, though you could tell
he was dying to but couldn't get up the nerve.  It was like I was Polly
on a Pedestal.  I didn't want that.  No woman would.

"When I finally got up the nerve to end it," Sharon said, "things
became even worse.  He kept calling, making these sick-eyes at me
around the restaurant, the whole bit.  Never in my life have I felt so
freaking guilty.  Even today when I see him on television, I want to
apologize to his image on the screen.  And I didn't do a damned thing
wrong.  A slice of life I'd as soon have not experienced."

"Sounds to me," Sheila said, "like a guy who can't have a normal
relationship with a woman.  You run into them.  I won't bore you with
medical jargon, but trust me that it goes back to the man's
relationship with his own mother."  She frowned.

"Isn't Will John Benedict married?"

Sharon nodded.

"Yeah.  No kids, though."  She sighed.

"Cassandra Mason.  Cas was in undergrad, about three years younger, a
campus beauty, sorority queen, you name it.  She's from one of Austin's
First Families.

There's a street, a tributary of the Colorado River, and a town in the
Hill Country named after her grandfather.

Masonville, Texas.  It's as if Mattie Ruth drew up Politician's Wife
Requirements and Cas Benedict stepped directly off the page.  Cas is
not one of my favorite people, either, and the feeling's mutual.

"She had designs on Will John before, during, and after the time I went
with him.  I didn't know that, but I never could have convinced anyone
that I didn't.  It was like anyone who didn't know Will John was Cas's
property, then they must be from Mars as famous as she was around the
Student Union.  Well / didn't know who she was, and to hell with her. I
never was in the loop when I was in law school.  I went to class, to
work, and to pick up my daughter, and I didn't know the campus big
wheels from Sister Sue.

"I'd never even heard of Cas Mason," Sharon said, "until one night
shortly after I'd ended things with Will John, when Cas and two of her
cohorts came into the restaurant and sat at my station like a
reincarnation of the Stepford Wives.  It was while I was serving them
drinks that she looked me over and said, "Sharon Hays, right?"  or
something to that effect, and I nearly dropped my tray in surprise that
she knew my name.

Then she told me, "So you're the little waitress," and I answered, "I
suppose that I am," without having the slightest idea what she was
talking about.  She said, "Well, I just wanted a look at you."  That
was the extent of the conversation, and it was later before one of the
other restaurant workers clued me in as to who she was.  At the time I
was like.  So what?  In fact I was glad, hoping Will John could find
someone to take his mind off of me, you know?  I don't mind telling you
that with Cas Mason despising my insides and Will John's father as my
Torts prof, I was between a rock and a hard place for a while there.
I'm told Cas goes ballistic at the mention of my name even today, but
what can I do about it?"

"Did Paul Benedict know at the time that you and Will John were
dating?"  Sheila asked.  Her degree from Yale hung in a frame behind
her, alongside her sheepskin from medical school.

"Yes.  But that's something else I wasn't aware of.

Stupid me, right?  During the times we were together, Will John never
mentioned his father."

Sheila rubbed her cheek.

"I don't see what's so devastating here.  This was years and years
ago."

"That sounds odd coming from a psychiatrist," Sharon said.

"Hang-ups are hang-ups, and stay with us for life.  Frankly I think his
family was a large part of Will John's problem.  They made him feel
inferior.  He had an all-star lawyer father and a mother who was about
to become one of the most politically powerful women in America.  Will
John didn't fit the mold, and you can bet that his current
congressional career is a result of Momma's and Daddy's pushing.  He
struck me like nothing so much as a lost puppy dog.  I've never been so
glad to get anything over with in my life."

Sheila fiddled with her ballpoint pen.

"You haven't told me anything which should be a barrier against you
defending the guy.  If you never had any kind of sexual relationship,
well .. ."

Sharon looked away.

"Will John and I didn't.  Will John isn't my problem.  My misgivings in
taking the case have to do with Paul Benedict," she said.

Sheila looked at the ceiling, her pretty chocolate colored features
slack with concern.

"Sharon, you didn't have an affair with your married law school
professor, did you?  After ditching his son?"

Sharon felt a surge of anger.

"An affair.  An affair^" "That sort of thing happens more than people
realize," Sheila said.

"It's just that you're not the type, unless you've changed over the
years more than I think you have."

Sharon squeezed her own leg as tears stung her eyes.

"This has been a secret forever, Sheil.  I've never told anyone."

"Under the circumstances," Sheila said, "that's understandable."

"You're not getting it," Sharon said.

"I never had an affair with Paul Benedict."  She took a deep breath and
let it out slowly.

"I've tried to shut this out of my mind for about ten years now.  But
Paul Benedict tried to rape me.  I don't mean, tried to seduce, that I
could have handled gracefully.  I mean, tried to rape, as in brutally.
He damned near put me in the hospital."  She watched her lap for a
moment, then slowly looked up.

"This has to remain between us, Sheila.  When you hear the whole story,
you'll understand why."


Sharon told Sheila that one would just have to've been there, to
understand Paul Benedict's impact on the UT.  Law School and its
student body.  He was the most powerful speaker she'd ever heard, and
the only professor in captivity who could teach a Tuesday Thursday 8
a.m. class and keep everybody awake for an hour and a half.  His steel
gray hair and cobalt blue eyes kept female students in a quivering
lather, and other faculty members were in a constant jealous snit over
the number of times he was published and appointed to President's
Councils.  The money for Mattie Ruth's senatorial campaign had come
from Paul Benedict's connections on Capitol Hill, and points east and
west around the globe.

A college campus is about as busy a rumor mill as there is, and the U.
of Texas at Austin was no exception.

Sharon heard gossip about Paul Benedict and several of his female
students long before she laid eyes on the man.  Call Sharon Jenifer
Hays Miss Naive;

she'd discounted the rumors as wishful thinking on the part of the
women telling the tales.

And besides, she'd had no time to speculate on Prof

Benedict's conquests among the student body even if she'd been of a
mind to.  Her first year in law school she'd been running scared,
terrified of not making her grades, flunking out.  She thought it
amazing what a fistful of student loans and a daughter to support would
do for one's study habits; she wouldn't have cut Paul Benedict's class
if he'd been a hunchback and stumped around like Igor.  It was Sharon
the student and Paul the professor, period.  If he'd sent out any
vibes, either they were awfully weak or she was too caught up in causes
of action and punitive damages to notice.  In fact it would've shocked
her to learn that he even knew her name.

Her job at Nacho Louie's was considered a plum among the working class.
Waiting on the older political crowd translated to super tips and fewer
guys rubbing up against the waitresses while fumbling for their
billfolds, which was more the case in the college hangouts farther on
down Austin's Sixth Street.  Not that those state senators and reps
were above a little fanny patting but at least they were more subtle
about it.

Nacho Louie's was in a stucco building with the inside walls plastered
to look like adobe.  The restaurant featured rustic wooden tables with
candles burning in little pin atas and an elevated island bar area with
seating for thirty.  The menu was a hundred percent Tex-Mex, and like
most really trendy Austin restaurants the decor was much better than
the food.  But Nacho Louie's did whip up a bitch of a margarita, with
two-for-one specials most nights, and after a few shots of tequila,
Sharon thought, who could taste anything anyway?

She worked a lot of split shifts, and the incident which was to change
her life forever occurred one evening when she was to get off at six
and return at nine to work until closing.  It had been about a week
since her last contact with Will John Benedict, and when one of the
busboys came to her and said that Mr.  Benedict was waiting, she
thought seriously about ducking out the back but changed her mind.  If
she scorned Will John he was likely to cause a scene; the Benedicts had
enough stroke around town that such a scene could cost Sharon her job.
In the long run she decided to see him.  She gritted her teeth and
hurried past the bar for the table.  She was so intent on rehearsing
her lines, what she was going to say to let Will John down as easily as
possible, that she had reached the table before she realized that its
occupant wasn't Will John Benadict at all.  Professor Paul Benedict
lifted his chin, smiled at her, and pushed back a chair for her to
sit.

Talk about in awe; Sharon couldn't have been more stunned if her guest
had been Sean Connery in person.

Her knees turned to rubber and she fell into her chair.

Twin reflections of the candle-lit pinata shined in the lenses of his
glasses, whose frames cast shadows on his temples like devil's horns.
He gave a palm-up gesture and said in his melodic basso, "Miss Hays.
Something to drink?"

She was barely able to squeak, "No, thank you," and somehow managed to
keep from melting under the table.

"Oh?"  he said.

"Surely a margarita.  They're excellent here."  One thing about Paul
Benedict, he didn't put on any phony Ahim-from-Texas accents like his
wife; he was educated at Princeton and wanted the world to know it.  Of
course, Sharon thought, he isn't running for office in Texas, either.
If he was he might suddenly become the reincarnations of Jett Rink like
the rest of the Austin political crowd.

Sharon said, "Well I don't know if I should drink while I'm on duty.
Professor.  I don't get off for--" "Call me Paul," he interrupted.

"And I'll call you Sharon if it isn't too presumptuous.  And I have
influence with your employer."

And with that he signaled toward the bar area and, splat, splat, the
bartender sets two 'ritas on the table as if he'd had them waiting in
the wings.  Which in light of later events he probably had, but at the
time Sharon was too preoccupied to notice.  Paul Benedict studied her
as if she were a lab specimen.  She felt as if every eye in the room
was on her.  She had a quick gulp of margarita to calm her nerves.

He sampled his own drink, put down the glass, and said, "You have my
son in quite an uproar."

She collected what thoughts she could.

"I didn't intend for that to happen.  Professor."

"Paul."

"Paul.  Listen, I want you to understand I don't .. ."

She trailed off as he held up a silencing finger.

"Not that I can't easily see why he's attracted," he said.  His tone
wasn't particularly wolfish and she blushed over the compliment.  He
then said, "I'm not in the habit of apologizing for my son's behavior,
but in this case I should."


Later Sharon would realize that he'd set her up perfectly  He
pronounced the words with just the right amount of poor-me in his
voice, so that she couldn't help but feel sorry for him.  She reached
across the table and put her hand on his arm.

"No offense taken," she said.

"Will John hasn't really done anything wrong, and even if he had, it
isn't your fault."

He lowered his head as if in shame.

"But I feel responsible.  His attitude toward women is really getting
to be a point of concern.  He seems to constantly feel he's falling in
love, over and over, and when the young woman rebuffs him he just won't
take no for an answer.  I've really come to my wits' end."

"I don't think it's going to be any more of a problem where I'm
concerned," Sharon said.

"I haven't seen him in a while."  If she'd had time to think, she
would've wondered how Paul Benedict knew that Will John had been going
out with her at all.  But right then, right there in Nacho Louie's, all
she could see was a man she looked up to and respected like, too much
for words, all broken up over the way his son had been acting.

"I know it's over for you," he said.

"But there might be a way you can help me keep the same thing from
happening again.  I feel so out of line in asking you, but .. ."

She bent nearer the table like Carole Concerned.

"No, no, anything to help.  It's just that I probably don't have
anything that significant to tell you, but if you want to .. ."

He made a show of peering around the restaurant area.

"I feel out of place talking here," he told her.

She looked around as well, as if searching for the enemy.

"Where I'm so well-known," he said.

"In the company of one of my law students.  Innocent as the
circumstances might be, people will interpret it the way they want
to."

In retrospect, Sharon thought the whole thing unbelievably slick. After
all, she didn't just fall off a load of hay.  She'd lived in New York,
acting, so it wasn't as if she'd never heard a line before.  It
absolutely never occurred to her that Paul Benedict had any motive
other than concern for his son.  He was, for God's sake, her Torts
prof.

The next thing she knew they were in the parking lot and he was holding
the car door open for her.  He drove a Lincoln, one of the big mothers.
She felt really safe and secure, sinking down in leather cushions as
they left Nacho Louie's.  She actually racked her brain for insight
into Will John's character, trying to help the kindly professor with
his problem.  In the history of the world, she would later think, never
had a woman been more freaking dumb.

Sharon had been talking for nearly an hour, and needed desperately to
catch her breath.  She left Sheila seated behind her desk and went into
the kitchen.  The passage of time hadn't helped; just talking about the
incident with Paul Benedict tied her insides into knots.

Sheila kept Pepsi in the fridge.  Sharon selected a blue, red, and
white can, popped the tab, and rolled the frosty metal across her
forehead.  She carried the drink back into the office and offered
Sheila half.  Sheila declined.  Sharon sat down and took a swig.

"The rest of this is pretty difficult to tell," she said.

Sheila remained stoic, in her psychiatrist's mode, "How does telling
about it make you feel?"

"Angry.  Disgusted with myself."

"Just with yourself?"

"I have a lot of hate for Paul Benedict," Sharon said.

"But I have myself to blame for getting in that situation at all.  I
should have known better.  I did know better.  Brand the scarlet letter
on my forehead, Sheil.  Hester Primm had nothing on me."

Once Paul Benedict had driven Sharon away from Nacho Louie's it was as
if Will John and his problems had never existed.  She waited for him to
bring up the subject of his errant son as he left downtown and headed
north on Mo-Pac--the local nickname for Loop 1 in Austin, which runs
along the same route as the old Missouri-Pacific Railroad and leads out
into the Hill Country.  Driving north on Mo-Pac is a sensation not
quite real; one minute you're in the bustle of downtown Austin, then
once you enter the freeway you're out in the boonies like, immediately.
Rolling hills stretch on both sides of the highway as far as the eye
can see.  Country roads twist here and there through the forests.  It's
easy to get lost in the Hill Country, as Sharon was soon to learn.

At first she was so wide-eyed and openmouthed in the company of the U.
of Texas's demigod of a law school prof that it never occurred to her
to ask where they were going.  Even after he left the freeway proper
and angled off to the west along a two-laned blacktop,

Sharon was so caught up in small talk that she barely noticed that
they'd left civilization.  Mostly he went on and on about causes of
action--which was the subject of the week in Torts class--and Sharon
asked a couple of scholarly questions along the way.  It was only when
he left the blacktop and rattled along on a gravel road that she became
the slightest bit uneasy.  And even then she wasn't particularly
frightened.  He pulled into a little turnaround and stopped with the
nose of his Lincoln pointing off a steep drop-off.  And there she was,
Sharon was later to reflect, Sharon Jenifer Dumass Hays sitting there
like a moron expecting Paul Benedict to launch into a discourse about
his and Sharon's strategy for saving Will John from himself.

Night had fallen.  The air was clear of smog and the stars twinkled
over the lights of downtown Austin in the distance.  Paul Benedict
killed the engine and turned halfway toward her with his elbow hooked
over the seat back.

They sat in silence for a count of ten.  Finally she said, intending to
break the ice, "You know.  Will John's really one of the nicest people
I've ever met, and it's not his fault that I don't have any, what you'd
call feelings for him.  I've never felt in any danger from him.
Professor.  It's just that he's awfully persistent, and time will heal
that."

Paul Benedict seemed deep in thought, and nothing could have prepared
Sharon for what was coming.  He looked straight at her and said, "A
complaint I hear over and over about my son is that he has some odd
sexual ideas."

Later, during her time as a Dallas prosecutor,

Sharon was to learn a lot about the psychology of weirdos.  Though some
nuts are subtler than others, with each and every psycho there is a
time when the mood changes.  When the guy switches from a fairly normal
topic to sex, and the end result in each case is the same.  When Paul
Benedict started talking about his son's sexual habits, it was as if
Sharon had been stabbed in the back with an icicle.  Chills up her
spine, the whole bit.  She looked away from him as she answered, "I
wouldn't know about that.  Professor."

"Paul," he said in a coaxing tone.

"Paul.  Nothing we discuss will go any further, Sharon.  I want you to
feel that you can open up completely."

She'd never been so nervous in her life.  She said, "I am opening up.
It's just that there never were any .. . Look, I think it's probably
time for me to--" "Most of these young women have complained," he went
on as if she hadn't even spoken, "that Will John doesn't really want to
participate in the act itself, that he'd rather watch the woman .. .
ah, how can I put it delicately?  Arouse herself.  It's perfectly
understandable, of course, that a healthy young woman wants a partner
in such activities.  Every one of us has our own preference as to,
position say, but none of us particularly wants to go it alone."  He
laughed then, the creepiest sound she'd ever heard.

She hugged herself, shivering.  She tried, "Listen, I have to be back
at work in--" "How do you like it, Sharon?"  He spoke with sudden
intensity.  Each word was like a separate slap in her face.  His breath
quickened and his gaze riveted on her like a madman's.  For just an
instant she was too frightened to move, and when she finally got
untracked she reached for the door handle.  Her thoughts were a jumble.
Get out, she told herself, jump out of this freaking car and make a run
for it.  Before she could move he bent near her, slid his hand up under
her skirt and palmed her mound.

Just like that, and just that quickly.  One instant they were sitting
there in the moonlight, the next she felt his fingers work up her thigh
and into her crotch.  He made guttural sounds, like growls.  She
grabbed his forearm and thrashed around in the front seat, trying to
get away from him, but he was strong as a bear.

Tears streamed down her cheeks and there were noises coming out of her
mouth--screams, she later supposed--but all to no avail.  In
desperation she slapped him across the face as hard as she could.

There wasn't room in the front seat for her to wind up and land a
haymaker, but her palm landed solidly on his cheek and stung her hand.
His grip loosened between her legs and she squirmed frantically away
from him.  He yelled, more in anger than in pain, reached across the
seat, grabbed her hair, and yanked her toward him.  Then he doubled up
his fist and punched her in the jaw.

It wasn't any glancing blow.  Her head snapped backward and she blacked
out for a few seconds.

When she came to be had her pinned against the passenger door, trying
to yank her panty hose down.  She was acutely aware of his hands as
they stretched the nylon waistband and pulled downward.  Her jaw
throbbed and her face was swelling.  His weight was against her chest
and shoulders and the door handle dug into her back and hurt like the
blazes.  Up to that point she'd been terrified, but now she got mad as
hell, and she was pretty sure it was the anger that saved her.  She had
only one thought, that this bastard was not going to get her pants off
and get into her, not while there was breath in her body.

As he twisted and grunted around on top of her, the side of his neck
was a fraction of an inch from her lips.  And right there in the front
seat of his fancy Lincoln Town Car, Sharon Hays sank her teeth into
Professor Paul Benedict's throat like a vampire.  She clamped her jaws
together and twisted her head to one side, and felt the flesh tear as
warm salty liquid ran across her tongue.  Even as frightened as she
was, his yell of pain was music to her ears.  She hated him enough to
kill him.  If she'd had a gun she would have used it.

He squirmed backward off of her, clutching his throat, and blood seeped
between his fingers in the moonlight.  She didn't hesitate.  She
reached behind her, yanked upward on the door handle, rolled out of the
car and hit the ground running.  He screamed, "Bitch" at the top of his
lungs, scrambled across the seat, and came after her.

In her confusion she headed straight for the dropoff.

When she turned to face him she stood on the ledge of the fifty-foot
cliff.  Jump, she told herself.  Before this son of a bitch touches you
again, just step off into space and .. .

He was in a crouch, panting.  She feinted in one direction, then tried
to run around him on the opposite side.

Sharon was in pretty good shape, and in running shoes she was sure she
would have made it, but the restaurant's working uniform included
three-quarter inch heels.  One of her shoes caught in a crevice.  She
pitched sideways, turning her ankle.  Sudden pain blinded her.  She
went down on all fours on rock and gravel, skinning her knees and
ripping her panty hose to shreds.

He grabbed her shoulder, rolled her over on her back, and fell on top
of her.  His full weight came down as he landed across her thigh.  She
heard a tiny snap, and agony shot up her leg like a thousand razor
blades.

He hit her three times in rapid succession across her nose and mouth.
Blood gushed from her lip and dripped on the ground.  Her vision
blurred; she was groggy, passing out.  She watched through a haze as he
drew back his fist to punch her again.  His teeth were bared like the
madman's in a horror movie.  Without warning, something stopped him
cold.

It was like watching a man wake up from a trance.

His hand froze in midair.  His lips relaxed, and in place of the
loonish grin there was now a look of puzzlement.

He looked at his doubled-up fist as if he'd never seen it before, then
slowly lowered his arm.

He came to his feet, and backed away with his hands out in a defensive
posture.

"Miss Hays, I ..."

He covered his face and began to sob.

He babbled apologies.  He didn't know what had come over him.  He
begged her not to think badly of him.  Think badly of him?  Sharon
thought.  Jesus Christ, if she'd have had a gun or knife she would have
.. .

She had a single purpose, to get the hell away from there before he
lost it again.  She somehow managed to rise and wiped her sleeve across
her face.  The sleeve showed smears of blood.  Anger shoved her fear
aside.  She stepped toward him.

"Get away from me, you bastard."  Her screams echoed in the
stillness.

He backpedaled as if the castle ghost were after him.

"Please, Miss Hays, I didn't mean .. ."

"Shut up!  Shut the absolute fuck up, you insane asshole.  You back
away and stay as far from me as possible."  Later she would suppose
that she sounded as crazy as he did.

And back up he did, all the way to the edge of the drop-off and stood
there shivering.  She kept her gaze riveted on him as she carefully
groped the side of the car and felt her way around to the driver's
side.  The keys were in the ignition.  She fell in behind the wheel,
slammed the door and thunked the door locks down.

She switched on the lights and the beams illuminated him.  He never
moved, just stood there watching her.

Her leg burned like fire and her nose throbbed; she wouldn't learn for
two more days that her septum was crushed.

Somehow she managed to start the car, back up, turn around, and drive
away.  He stood stock-still.  If he'd taken so much as a step in her
direction, she would have thrown the lever into drive, stomped on the
gas, and run the bastard down.

Sharon drove back to downtown Austin in a state of near hysteria,
sobbing loudly, wiping tears away with the back of her hand.  She
should go directly to the police.  But what about her job?  At the
moment her income from Nacho Louie's was the only thing between her and
living on a street corner.  And Mela- me .  God, what about her?  It
was almost eight, and Sharon was scheduled to return to work at nine.
During her afternoon shift Melanie stayed at a daycare center, and
during Sharon's hours off she was to deliver the baby to a woman who
kept Melanie while Sharon worked at night.  Seeing to her daughter's
care was more important than anything.  More important than reporting a
beating and attempted rape?  Sharon thought.  You bet it is.  Turning
Paul Benedict in to the police would have to wait.

She parked the Lincoln in the restaurant lot beside her ancient Ford,
climbed into her car and looked in the rearview.  God, she looked like
the victim in a horror movie.  She couldn't pick up her daughter in
that condition, no way.  She got out, ran inside Nacho Louie's with her
breath whistling between her teeth, and went in the ladies' room to
scrub the blood away.

When she'd finished, her nose and one side of her face were grotesquely
swollen, but at least the bleeding had stopped.  The bodice of her
waitress's uniform was soaked in blood.  She'd have to stop by her
garage apartment to change before she picked up Melanie.

She dried her face with a paper towel, left the restroom, and walked
toward the exit as calmly as she could.

The restaurant manager stopped her in the foyer.

His name was Ray, a man in his forties, and up until that moment he'd
never acted as if he knew she was alive.  The bartender at Nacho

Louie's bossed the waitresses, and Sharon had never spoken to the man
3

ager that she could recall.  Normally, in fact, the manager wasn't
there at night.  His voice showed concern.

"Sharon, are you all right?"

"Fine.  I'm .. . fine.  Look I'm late picking my daughter up."  She
tried to go around him and out the door.

He put his hand on her arm.  His tone intensified.

"I want to make sure you don't do anything foolish."

She gaped in surprise.  Foolish?  She'd already been foolish, leaving
with that madman to begin with.  She said hesitantly, "Excuse me?"

He leaned closer and lowered his voice, "Foolish, Sharon.  It would be
foolish for you to tell anyone what happened."

Sharon stood in the restaurant foyer with blood pounding in her swollen
lip and fractured nose, and wondered how the manager of this freaking
restaurant could possibly know where she'd been or what had happened to
her.  Had Paul Benedict made it to a phone and called the guy?  Or did
this sort of thing happen so often that the restaurant manager knew
what to say without being told?  She'd heard rumors that Mattie Ruth
Benedict was a major stockholder in the restaurant.  Sharon continued
to gape.  She was beginning to feel like a moron.

He held the exit door open for her.

"We're giving you the night off with pay," he said.

"After you've slept on it, call me in the morning.  Before you talk to
anyone about what happened to you tonight, talk to me."  Then he handed
her a business card containing his office and home telephone numbers.
She went into the parking lot with her feet dragging.  She felt numb,
terminally so.

* * * Somehow Sharon made it to the day care and picked up Melanie
without alarming any of the staff, though a few did double takes when
they looked at her.  She told them she'd fallen at work, and though
they seemed dubious they refrained from commenting.

She took the baby home and put her to bed, then sat on her couch and
stared at the phone.  She looked up Police Emergency in the directory
and punched two or three numbers into the dial, then hung up in
frustration.

Finally she went to bed, tossing around and kicking the covers to death
until daylight.  She might have slept in the wee hours, she wasn't
really sure.

In the morning her face throbbed and she couldn't inhale through her
nose without whimpering in pain.

She cut class and stayed in bed, moving only when Melanie raised the
roof with her cries of hunger.  Around midmorning the restaurant
manager called.

"I've been expecting to hear from you," he said.

She lay back on her pillow with the receiver clamped against her ear.

"Why is that?"

"You said you were going to call."

This was her boss and she desperately needed the job, but at the moment
she didn't care.

"No, I didn't, Ray."

"I thought that was our agreement."

"You misinterpreted, then.  You told me to call.  I didn't say I was
going to do anything of the kind."

After a moment's pause he said, "Oh.  Well, have you thought about our
conversation?"


"Quite a bit.  Next to nearly getting raped and have 5

ing the hell beaten out of me, our conversation is uppermost on my
mind."

"Well it should be.  Have you called the police?"

"Not yet."

"Well are you going to?"

"About the attack, I haven't made up my mind.

About you bugging me, I won't report you unless you call again.
Good-bye, Ray."

"Dammit, don't you hang up."

Sharon held the phone and didn't say anything.

"You don't want to get the cops involved in this," Ray said.

"Think of your job."

Sharon's grip tightened on the receiver.

"Think what of my job?  Are you threatening me?"

"I didn't say that."

"No, you merely intimated.  Here's the situation in a nutshell.  As far
as the job goes, you can take it and you-know-what.  I don't know what
grip Paul Benedict holds over the management of Nacho Louie's and don't
care.  Prof Benedict deserves jail for what he did to me last night.  A
lot of jail.  But I have my daughter to think about, and how it would
affect her for me to go public.  That's the only thing that will
influence my decision, not you, not my job, or anything else other than
Melanie's welfare.  So fuck you.  Ray.  And if you should run across
Professor Benedict in your travels, that goes double for him."

Later that day, Sharon went over to the university's add-drop office
with Melanie in her arms, and picked up a permission slip to withdraw
from Torts class.  No matter her decision about reporting the incident
to the police, she wasn't about to sit daily in a classroom where Paul
Benedict was the prof.  The lady in the office told her that the
semester was too far along for her to drop the course without a
penalty, to which Sharon said fine, give me an F or something.  The
woman said that Sharon could only withdraw from the course with the
permission of her faculty advisor.

Sharon said fine, and left the add-drop office near the point of
hysteria.

Her advisor was a woman named Diane Lutz who taught Criminal Law, and
who punctuated each spoken sentence by smacking her lips at the end.
She laid the drop slip on her desk and watched the piece of paper as if
it were a rattler about to strike.  Finally she said, "This is a
required course.  Miss Hays, it wouldn't be advisable to drop at this
time."

Sharon was ready to scream.  She didn't care about the consequences,
she just wanted out of that freaking class, and if Lutz the Smacker
wouldn't approve the drop slip she'd quit attending and take a failing
grade.

Which would end her quest to be a lawyer, but any sort of levelheaded
thinking was beyond her by then.

Lutz told her to take a day to think it over.  Sharon snatched up her
paperwork and stalked out of the office.

On the drive to her apartment in northwest Austin, Sharon made up her
mind to call the police.  To hell with Diane Lutz, to hell with law
school, and in particular to hell with Professor Paul Benedict.  She
parked on gravel, unstrapped Melanie from her car seat, and ascended
the steps with the baby riding her hip.  A man waited on the landing
outside her door.

She'd never seen this guy before.  He was a short, bald, sweaty type,
wearing an expensive suit that hung from his body like an off-the-rack
from JC Penney.

He produced a business card.  Sharon shifted Melanie from one hip to
the other as she read.  Apparently the stranger was David Matusek, a
lawyer from a firm downtown.  Sharon tilted her head in curiosity.  He
asked if he could have a chat with her.

After what she'd been through the past twenty-four hours, she supposed
that one more lunatic in her life couldn't make any difference, so she
told Mr.  Matusek to come inside.  She carried Melanie to the back and
put the child down in her crib.  When she returned to the kitchen the
lawyer was seated at a rickety table that Sharon had bought in a garage
sale.  He'd taken a sheath of papers from his briefcase and was reading
them over.  Sharon sat, across from him and waited.

Finally he laid the papers aside, took off his glasses, and sucked on
an earpiece.

"I think first I should deal with your reluctance.  Read this."  His
voice was calm, his manner businesslike.  He pushed the stack of paper
over in front of her.

Her blood boiled as she read over what amounted to a contract between
Sharon Hays and the man who'd tried to rape her.  If she signed the
document she was agreeing that Dr.  Paul Benedict, Professor Emeritus
and all that crap, had never laid a land on her or tried to.  That
whatever recent injuries she'd sustained resulted from a fall she'd
taken while Professor Benedict was counseling her regarding her recent
breakup with his son.  That she'd willingly accompanied Professor

Benedict out in the woods for this so y called session, that she'd
tripped over a rock and fallen halfway down a ravine, and that
Professor Benedict had jumped on a white horse and rescued her.  That
while Professor Benedict was in no way responsible for her injuries,
out of concern for her condition he agreed to pay for any medical
treatment she might need in return for her signature on the release
included at the bottom of the document.  The papers were fresh off the
press, likely dictated by Paul Benedict himself that morning in his
lawyer's office.

She gave the papers back to the guy.

"Go fuck yourself, sir," she said.  She thought that if nothing else,
since the incident with Professor Benedict she was becoming adept at
telling people where to go and what to do to themselves.

Attorney Matusek seemed amused.  He said, smiling, "Somehow, Miss Hays,
I thought that would be your attitude.  So I think we should now
discuss the alternatives.

Do you know that Professor Benedict's wife plans to run for the U.S.
Senate in the future?"

She blinked warily at the guy.

"Which affects me how?"

"Oh, it could have a very positive effect," he said, "on anyone who
expects to practice law in this state.

Don't ever discount a lawyer's political connections."

"And don't discount the effect it could have on an election," Sharon
said, "if the candidate's husband is sitting in jail for assault."

Matusek wasn't fazed in the slightest.

"Yes, that could be unfortunate.  Not to mention the problems it could
cause for a law student, being on the wrong side of an important
faculty member."

Sharon bit her lip.  There was nothing which scared her more than not
getting through law school.  She'd gambled her life on the chance.  She
said, with less conviction, "He deserves to go to jail for what he
did."

"I'm sure you feel that way.  But I'm not here to argue morality.  I'm
here to offer compromise."

"I'm not accepting any compromise, sir.  If this guy thinks he can go
around injuring women, brutalizing them, and then getting off with
paying their hospital bills--" "You haven't heard everything.  Miss
Hays.  May I finish?"

Sharon stared at him.  She hated Paul Benedict, and the mere fact that
this lawyer was Benedict's representative caused her to despise the
lawyer as well.

Matusek favored her with an oily smile.

"There are benefits to you that aren't in writing.  Before you send me
on my merry way, it would behoove you to listen.

The unspoken benefits will make what's happened to you worth your
while, and then some."

Sheila gaped in amazement.

"Good Lord, you didn't sign the freaking thing."

"The discussion with this lawyer," Sharon said, "went on for an hour or
more.  Sure, I could file a complaint, after which it would be my word
against one of the most distinguished profs in the state.  I'd never
practiced criminal law back then, of course, but I can tell you from my
experience as a prosecutor that the D.A. probably wouldn't have
listened to me.  I left the restaurant with the guy of my own free
will, right?

Plus if I did try to make something out of the situation, I could
expect not to be in school the following semester under any
circumstances.  Paul Benedict could have arranged that with one phone
call.  And the alternatives.

Jesus, Sheila, the alternatives.

"If I was a good sport and kept my mouth shut," Sharon said, "I would
find my life to be quite a bit easier.  Not only could I get treatment
for my injuries gratis, I could be guaranteed special consideration
when things like grades were handed out, and my job could become very
lucrative.  I'd only wait on special customers, translating to big
tippers, and I could pretty well set my own hours without consulting
management.

I could fight city hall, in other words, or I could sell out for a mess
of pottage."

Sharon rotated her chair and watched the far wall, letting her gaze
rest on an aerial photo of downtown Dallas and a print of happy
children at play.  When she turned back, Sharon's features were relaxed
in an expression of resignation.

"I signed it, Sheil," she said.

"God help me, right there at my kitchen table, I signed what was left
of my dignity away."

Sharon was unable to look Sheila in the eye.  She watched the far wall
as she said, "Once I'd committed to prostituting myself, I suppose
there have been worse trade-offs.  The best eye, ear, and nose
specialist in Austin straightened my septum and, hell, my nose looks
better now than it did.  My job became a piece of cake.  I doubled my
income while working about half as many hours.  Paul and Mattie Ruth
Benedict became my best customers in the restaurant.  They'd sit at my
station at least once a week, maybe more,

and the tips he'd leave were gigantic.  Every time I accepted money
from Paul or Mattie Ruth, my flesh would crawl.

"It was a month or two before Will John Benedict and I were on speaking
terms again, but I got enough out of our conversation to know he was
completely in the dark as to what had gone on.  Will John's a mouse,
Sheila.  The years haven't changed that.  If he's guilty of this murder
he's accused of, this is a completely different guy from the one I
know.

"I did draw the line once," Sharon said, "right at the end of that
semester.  I completely butchered my Torts final and knew it, yet when
grades came out I had an A in the course.  I went to see Paul Benedict
in his office, it was the only time I had a conversation with him after
the ... you know, the incident.  I told him I wasn't accepting a grade
I hadn't earned, and if he didn't correct the record I was going public
with what I knew about him.  The meeting required more nerve than I
ever thought I was capable of.  Just being in the same room alone with
that bastard made my throat constrict.

"And, you know what?  Keep in mind that he was the predator and I was
his victim.  I've seen guys in prison who, when confronted with victims
or families of victims, have such feelings of guilt that they withdraw
into themselves like schizos.  Not this guy, not Mr.  Paul Asshole
Benedict, no sirree.  He acted like he enjoyed seeing me, and even
suggested that I go to dinner with him some evening.  I ended the
meeting by going into hysterics, telling him that if my grade wasn't
changed within twenty-four hours I was headed straight for the
newspapers.  After I left his office I went home, and don't think I
went out in public again for a week or so.

"Which is how I wound up with a C in Torts, and considering the
pressure I was under that semester it's a miracle I passed the course
at all.  I spent the summer in a state of shock, and had no intention
of returning to school the next fall.  I couldn't look in the mirror
without curling my lip in disgust with myself, and Jesus Christ, I
hadn't done anything wrong to begin with.

"The only reason I did finish law school," Sharon said, "was that
summer, there was an announcement in the paper that Professor Paul
Benedict, distinguished motherfucker that he was, was resigning his
post at UT.  Law School to run his wife's political campaign.  Mattie
Ruth won in a landslide and the Benedicts moved their act to
Washington.  If she'd lost, if he'd returned to the law school staff,
I'm sure I would've dropped out.  More than likely I'd still be waiting
tables.  I couldn't bear the thought of living in the same town with
the guy, much less seeing him on campus every day.  Criminals I can
deal with, Sheila, do all the time, murderers .. . But what drives
someone like Paul Benedict is beyond me."  Sharon lapsed into
silence.

Sheila pulled a pad and pen from her desk and wrote something down. She
laid the pen aside and thoughtfully pinched her chin.

"Is that all?"

Sharon put her elbow on her armrest and rested her cheek on her lightly
clenched fist.

"All that comes to mind."

"When you came in here," Sheila said, "you told me that you wanted my
professional help.  I'm not sure what you're asking.  You've concluded
your monologue by asking what makes people like Paul Benedict tick.
Earlier on I thought you wanted my advice as to how to cope with this
situation you're in.  Which is it?"

Sharon rubbed her eyebrow.

"A little of both."

"Analyzing Paul Benedict is easy," Sheila said.

"Power.

Power and its privileges."  She tore the top page from her pad.

"There are sociopaths, and then there are sociopaths.  Most wind up in
prison, I won't bore you with that rhetoric, but there is a second
sociopathic type.  Both men and women fall into this category, though
it's a rarity for the subject to be female.  From the cradle to the
grave, this person is totally self-absorbed.

There's disagreement as to the cause, but the symptoms are the same in
every case.

"This guy," Sheila said, "is normally quite successful financially, but
is incapable of love.  He'll take a wife and then abuse and cheat on
her.  He gives nothing of himself to his children, other than to throw
money at them to keep them out of his way.  He's persuasive, which
explains why so many of these, let's call them power freaks for want of
a better term, turn to politics.  They crave power the same way a
Hatcher Street bum craves crack cocaine.

"This type personality is similar to a serial killer, believe it or
not, in that he doesn't see other people as human beings, only means to
whatever end our psycho has in mind.  Your Jeffrey Dahmers regard their
victims no differently than you'd regard a herd of beef cattle.  Ditto
with our power freak, though he considers himself civilized and would
stop short of feasting on your bones.  A lot of these congressional
types look on the women under them as just another possession, and feel
that taking every woman they meet to bed is a privilege just like
getting special service when they go to a restaurant.  I had a patient
once who used to sleep with a U.S. Senator.  She was eaten up with the
glamour, but admitted in therapy that the sex was purely
him-ham-thank-you-ma'am.  Once he'd gotten his jollies he was through
with her.  Her gratification was of no consequence to him."

Sheila fell silent for a count of ten.  She pushed the piece of paper
across her desk.  Sharon picked up the page and read off the names of
two periodicals.

Sheila said, "They're articles you should bone up on when you have the
time.  Your violent criminals are one thing, they can be locked up, but
our power freak is different even though his mind-set is practically
the same."  She thoughtfully massaged her forehead.

"My advice to you would be not to get involved in this.  Period."

"That isn't an option," Sharon said.

"I've promised Russ."

"Well, then," Sheila said, "if you're going to take Will John
Benedict's case come hell or high water, there are things you should be
aware of.  Not the least of which is that your power freak, when he's
rebuffed, is capable of anything.  I think you're right that Will John
is just his father's underling dupe.  Children of these guys are often
so dominated that they lack independent thought.  It's likely that Will
John places all women on a pedestal and didn't just pick you out for
special treatment.  Probably that's the reason Paul Benedict turned
violent; he wanted to show his kid the real way to handle this wench.
Five'll get you ten that Will John got a blow-by-blow, leaving out the
part where you left the old man out in the boonies, the second the old
man got home.  The trait isn't genetic, Sharon, it's a learned
response.  If Paul Benedict is one of these weirdos, and from what
you've told me there's a ninety-nine percent chance that he is, then
it's likely his son's flaws are the result of Daddy's dominance.  Be
careful, Sharon.  If you're bound and determined to do this, watch your
backside every step of the way."


Sharon went home to pack while Sheila picked up the girls at St.
Thomas Episcopal.  Sharon stepped into her house, hurried past the old
Spanish-style sofa which was the centerpiece of her den, went into her
bedroom closet and hauled out her only respectable piece of traveling
luggage.  It was a really nifty leather and-knit piece, whose
umpty-jillion compartments folded neatly into a two-by-three-by-two
tetragon complete with rollers and a retractable handle.  In a few
minutes she'd stripped her closet bare, laying her entire wardrobe out
on the bed.  She wrinkled her nose.

Though she was far from a clothes horse, Sharon prided herself in
keeping her ensembles up-to-date, and the fact was that her four
presentable courtroom suits--including the navy blue that she now
wore-needed replacing.  She'd bought the outfits while she was with the
D.A."s office, and she'd now been in practice with Russell Black for
three whole years.  As she stowed the suits and matching shoes into her
luggage, she made a mental note that some serious shopping was in order
when she returned from D.C. She then added two pair of jeans, khaki
slacks, and a number of blouses, white Nikes, and some brown casual
pumps.  After thinking for a minute, she also packed a strapless and
backless sequined cocktail dress because, what the hell, one never
knew.  Finally she stuffed in a warm coat along with a waist-length
mink she'd inherited from her mother, the only fur that she had.

She'd checked the weather reports, and D.C. was going to be cold. After
tossing in Jockey for Her panties and white, beige, and navy bras, she
folded up her luggage, snapped the snaps and zipped the zippers, pulled
up on the handle and clicked it into place, and finally rolled the
loaded-down suitcase into the corner.

She changed into raggedy cutoffs and an oversized T whose front
displayed a cartoon of Snoopy over the caption, "Get Met.  It pays,"
and went into the backyard.

Commander loped up, trotting along beside her, rearing and trying to
lick her face, as she went behind the house and filled the shepherd's
water dish.  She muttered, "Holy shit.  Commander.  Down.  Down, dammit
..."  while she filled a large plastic bowl with Kibbles'N Bits.  There
was a ten-gallon washtub in the garage that she considered filling with
dog food as well, then changed her mind.  With Melanie remaining in
Dallas there was no need; Melanie adored the shepherd, and would make
sure that Commander didn't starve.

The feeding and watering accomplished, Sharon sat on her redwood deck
and played fetch with Commander for a while.  A crooked hickory branch
was the prize, and Commander was terrible at the game.

Oh, he'd charge after the stick as if on a Holy Crusade, pouncing on
and crushing the wood between his teeth, but instead of laying his
prize at his master's feet he'd then roll onto his back and wait for
Sharon to come to him.  God, retrieving the stick from Commander
required a freaking tug-o'-war.  The most exasperating dog Sharon had
ever known, but the most lovable as well.  After fifteen minutes of the
game, she gave up.  She scratched Commander between the ears.

She had a sudden mental image, a picture of Professor Paul Benedict,
his teeth bared in a look of insanity as he'd snaked his hand up inside
her skirt in the front seat of his Lincoln ten years ago.  She buried
her face in the shepherd's fur and repressed a sob.

"Watch the ranch, old pard, okay?"  she said, then went in the house
while Commander sat on his haunches with his head cocked in
curiosity.

Sharon's list of things to do clicked through her mind as she called
the post office to have mail delivery halted for a week, then punched
in the number for the Dallas Morning News subscription service to
suspend delivery of her morning paper.  She programmed the VCR a week
in advance to record her favorite shows-NYPD Blue, Law & Order,
Homicide and.  God help her.  Minions of Justice: The Streets, starring
Melanie's father in the flesh--then removed clean sheets from the dryer
and headed for Melanie's room to drop the linens on the bed.  On the
way through the den she stopped in her tracks.  She sighed, let the
laundry slide to the carpet, and sank down in a chair.

Last week she and Sheila had picked out identical

Christmas pines, and her own six-foot green tree now sat in its stand
beside the home entertainment center.

The bowl at the base of the stand was filled with water, and a few
needles had drifted to the carpet.

Earlier during her psychiatry session she'd noticed that Sheila's tree
was already decorated--beautifully and tastefully, of course, which was
Sheila's normal way of doing things--and she felt a twinge of guilt as
she looked at a stack of boxes containing gold and silver spheres,
Stay-brite lights, plastic angels and chiming Santas.  On the day
they'd brought home the tree, Sharon and Melanie had hauled the boxes
down from the attic with great enthusiasm.  Every day they'd intended
to hang the decorations, but something-courtroom appearances,
after-hours briefings at the library, the Nativity pageant at Melanie's
school--had always interfered.  Now, if she stayed in D.C. for a week,
she wouldn't return home until the day before Christmas Eve.

Her jaw set in determination, Sharon carried the laundry into Melanie's
room and dumped the sheets on the bed, then returned to the den.
Muttering, chiding herself, she opened her breakfront cabinet and
withdrew her sterling silver punch bowl.

Melanie Hays wallowed in gloom as she rode home in the backseat of
Sheila Winston's station wagon.

When Melanie and Trish had come out of the school, both fourteen year
olds walking in grown-up, cool princess strides, Melanie had known
immediately that something was wrong.  It was so not with-it that
Sheila was waiting across the street to pick them up.  Just that
morning Melanie's mom had promised to drive her home in the new
car--okay, so it wasn't completely new, but the shiny blue Skylark was
to be the first really pimp ride in the Hays household since Melanie
had been alive.  Melanie about died on the days when her mom drove
carpool, when she had to climb into the dented old Volvo while the
other kids' mothers-or, in many cases, their mothers'
chauffeurs--arrived in Caddys or Mercedes, some of them even pulling to
the curb in Porsches or Jags.  And now, on the day of all days when
Melanie wouldn't have to hide down in the seat as Mom drove her away
from school, old Mommyroo had to break her word.  On seeing Sheila
Winston's station wagon, Melanie had hung her head in shame.  To die,
she'd thought.  To absolutely freaking die.

Not that Melanie hadn't grown accustomed to people breaking their word.
Duh-uh, hello.  Daddypoop was an ace at flaking out.  Other kids
thought it was a Big Fucking Deal--shortened to B.F.D. among the
adolescent crowd--that Melanie's father was a television star, but
Melanie had Rob Stanley marked down as just another B.F. liar.  Only
two months ago she'd flown with her mom to California and her dad had
taken her to the studio.  Which Melanie supposed was okay, meeting
Jerry Seinfeld and whatnot, but now she was certain that the whole
Daddy-of the-Decade bit had been an act.  He'd promised to write, but
to date hadn't said hello, good-bye, kiss my A. or F.U.

in the way of a letter, and Melanie was now certain that Rob Stanley
didn't give a S. about his child.  So what else was new?  Melanie
should have realized that he didn't care about her when he hadn't come
around for the first eleven years of her so-called existence.

And now, to top things off, it turned out that her mom was a B.F. liar
as well.

And that part sort of hurt, not that Melanie was going to allow her
disappointment to show.  Her mom had always been there for her, since
birth.  But that was before Mom had gone to California to be the lawyer
for a famous movie actress, and in the process had gotten on television
and become a B.F.D. in her own right.  Only six weeks earlier Melanie's
periods had begun and her mom had seen her gently through the trauma,
but in Melanie's adolescent mind six weeks might as well have been six
years.  Mom was now a B.F.D. just like good old Dad, and B.F.D."s had
no time for their kids.  And, Melanie thought as Sheila Winston
explained tHat she was to stay at the Winston's while Mom flew off to
Washington, the next step beyond becoming a B.F.D. was to be a B.F.
liar as well.  All of Mom's promises about Christmas shopping, about
spending the holidays together in this state of euphoria, all of that
was a B.F. lie.

Sheila steered into the Hays driveway, cut the engine, and watched
Melanie expectantly over the seat back.  Melanie offered Sheila a smile
of innocence.

"Be right back," she said, and reached for the door handle as Trish
moved her legs aside to give her room.

Melanie threw Trish a confident wink, climbed over her best friend in
this world, and trotted across the lawn toward her front door.  The
sparkling Buick Skylark sat in the drive, but Melanie averted her gaze
from the car.  So it's a car, B.F.D."  she thought as she hopped up on
the front porch and reached for the door handle.

Melanie hoped that Mom was in the backyard with the dog, so that she
could grab her things and haul A. without saying good-bye, but that
wasn't to be.

Sharon was in fact in the den, wearing a goofy Met Life T as if she was
trying to be a kid, standing on a stepladder and stretching to her full
height in order to affix the star to the top of the tree.  Oh, goody,
Melanie thought as tears stung her eyes, Christmas.

Santa Claus.  B.F.D. In spite of her bitterness she couldn't help but
notice that her mom was pretty without makeup, wearing her grodies, and
couldn't help remembering that, not so long ago, she'd been proud that
Mom and she looked more like sisters than mother and daughter.  Now,
however, Melanie resented her mom's leggy good looks just as she
resented the fact that Sharon was leaving town.  Mom looked like a
B.F.D."  acted like a B.F.D."  was a B.F.D., and a B.F. liar along with
the rest of the adults in the world.

Sharon turned on the stepladder, lightly touching pine branches to
steady herself, her expression softening as she gazed at her daughter,
and stepped smoothly down onto the carpet, barefoot.  She took a long
stride toward Melanie and opened her arms.

"Hi, sweetheart," she said.

Melanie allowed a brief hug, a short smacky kiss to the cheek, then
stepped around her mother and walked quickly toward her room.

"I've got to hurry.  Mom.

Sheila's waiting for me."

"Mrs.  Winston," Sharon said, though her tone wasn't as reproachful as
it normally was whenever Melanie called Sheila by her first name.

"Well, whoever.  I've got to go."

"Melanie .. ."

Melanie stopped near the step-up entrance to the hallway, and turned
around.

"I've fixed punch."  Sharon pointed to the sterling silver bowl where
it sat on the dining table.  The bowl was three-quarters full of frothy
pink liquid, with lumps of green sherbet floating on the surface.

Melanie wrinkled her nose.

"No, thanks," she said, and hustled on down the corridor.

Sharon followed, reaching Melanie's room and pausing in the doorway as
Melanie flopped her overnight case on the bed and opened the lid.

"I thought we'd decorate the tree," Sharon said.

Melanie opened a drawer and turned around with panties bunched in her
fist.

"I don't have time.  I told you, Sheila's waiting."

"Irish and Mrs.  Winston are invited."  Sharon kept her tone cheerful,
though her voice broke slightly at the end.

Melanie dropped the panties into the overnight case and walked to her
closet.

"You don't have to do that."

Sharon came into the room.

"But I want to."

Melanie was inside the closet, rasping through the hangers.

"Well I don't."

Sharon near the dresser.

"Melanie."

Melanie came out, folding over a pair of jeans.

"Chill, Mom.  Just chill, will you?"

Sharon's voice quivered in sudden anger.

"No.  I won't chill.  What's wrong with you?"

Melanie dropped the jeans in on top of the panties, and retreated once
more inside the closet.

"You don't want to know."

Sharon rested her lightly clenched fists on her hips.

"Yes, I do.  You're my daughter."

"Am I?  Am I, Mom?"

"Yes, you are.  And as long as you live in my house .. . Don't be like
this, Melanie."

"Like what?"

"You know."

Melanie stopped in the doorway and sighed.

"You can make me.  Mom.  You can force me, and we'll have Sheila and
Trish in here and decorate like mad and drink punch and pretend we're
all like, totally delirious.

But that won't change anything.  You're leaving town.  I'm staying
here.  It's okay.  Mom, I like it that way."

"I have to earn a living."

"Oh?  By screwing up Christmas?"  Melanie stepped toward the bed.

Sharon blocked her daughter's path.

"I'll be home before Christmas."

"Don't bother."  Melanie tried to step around her mother, but Sharon
moved to the side and stood her ground.  Melanie lowered her head.

"It's okay.  Mom.

Really it is.  You have your Christmas, I'll have mine.

Now.  Will you please move?  Just chill.  Mom.  I told you, Sheila's
waiting outside."

Sharon reached out as if to grab her daughter and give her a shaking,
then lowered her hands.

"My leaving can't be helped, and I think you know that.  If it wasn't
important I wouldn't be going."  She moved aside.

"But have it your way."

Melanie tilted her chin.  Her eyes were moist.

"Cool, Mom.  And I will have it my way.  From now on, that's just what
I intend to do."

Sharon watched her daughter leave, sashaying down the sidewalk with a
drawstring bag slung over her shoulder, climbing into Sheila's station
wagon and slamming the door without so much as a glance back over her
shoulder.  As the wagon backed out of the driveway, Sharon leaned her
forehead against the doorjamb.  It was all she could do to keep from
running into the yard and calling out to Melanie, begging her little
girl not to be angry with her.

Making the right jchoices in rearing a child on her own was an
impossible task; good sense told her not to give in to Melanie's
tantrums, to be the adult and display an outward veneer of calm, but
doing so ripped her emotions to shreds.  She took a deep breath, backed
away from the door and steadied herself.  Then she returned to the den,
gazing helplessly at the Christmas tree for a moment.  Finally she
sobbed in frustration, hefted the punchbowl and carried it into the
kitchen, and dumped the entire concoction out in the sink.  She stood
as if in a trance, watching the thick pinkish liquid glug down the
drain.


Russell Black didn't have much to say on the early bird flight to
Washington, and Sharon thought it just as well.  There was an ache in
her throat which would have made conversation difficult, a painful lump
which tightened each time she thought of Melanie.

Mother-daughter spats had become more and more common as Melanie moved
into teen hood little skirmishes that always ended with the two of them
making up, but yesterday had been entirely different.  The fourteen
year old had been awfully transparent, using sass to cover what was
really troubling her.  Melanie was feeling neglected, and--dammit,
Sharon thought-had a right to.  After her daughter had gone to
Sheila's, Sharon had tossed and turned until 2 a.m."  and several times
had nearly called Russ and canceled the trip.  She felt ripped in two,
half of her wanting to tend to business, the other half wanting to say
to hell with practicing law and become a full-time mother.  Which she
couldn't afford, of course, not for long.  As the American jetliner
floated over the snow-covered landscape and began its descent into
Reagan National, the White House, Treasury Building, and the Capitol
were visible below like architects' miniatures.  Sharon had never been
to the nation's capital.  She touched the cold glass of the jetliner's
window, and wished with all her heart that she hadn't come.

Sharon adjusted her shoulder bag strap and switched her topcoat from
one arm to the other as Russell Black trailed her up the accordion
walkway and into the terminal.  She did a sharp column-right, passed a
bank of telephones, the men's and women's restrooms, a row of concourse
gift shops, and finally reached the security station.  Boarding
passengers dumped carry-ons onto the conveyor belt, then dropped keys
and change onto trays before stepping through the metal-detectors.  One
man in an overcoat spread his arms in a sheepish posture as a guard ran
a handheld detector over his' shoes and clothing.  Sharon hustled on,
setting her game face, telling herself that her problems at home
weren't going to interfere with business, no way.  She had a sudden
sensation of being alone in the crowded airport, and stopped and
turned.

Russ had hung back a good twenty paces and was looking around with a
puzzled look on his face.

Sharon retraced her steps and stood before the older lawyer.

"What is it, boss?"  she said.

Black shrugged and moved forward.  Sharon fell in step beside him.
Black said, "Guess I was assumin' too much.  We didn' really talk about
it on the phone, but I thought Mattie Ruth might be waiting for us.

Idn like her, to let out-of-town visitors fend for themselves."

The pair moved past the security stations and on into the massive
airport lobby.

Sharon let her gaze rest on a Starbuck's coffee shop across the way.

"Not in her current circumstance, Russ.  With the publicity?  I doubt
Mattie Ruth Benedict can set foot in public without a gang of newsies
and paparazzi on her trail."

They continued on, with Black playing the gentleman as always, herding
Sharou along in front of him as if he were her escort.  Sharon stepped
on a large gold medallion that was painted on the floor, and stopped
dead in her tracks.  Russ bumped her gently from behind.

Directly in front of the lawyers from Texas was a picture window five
stories high and the length of several football fields.  Visible
through the glass was the edge of a runway and, further in the
distance, a river which had to be a couple of miles wide.  Snowdrifts
padded the riverbank, and bleak icy whiteness covered the tree branches
along the runway.  On the other side of the river, the dome on Capitol
Hill towered over the city.

Sharon drew breath.

"Will you look at that.  Like a picture book on your coffee table."

Black stepped up beside her, lugging her briefcase, and viewed the
panorama with his face expressionless.

"I've seen it before," he said.  "01' George had an arm on him."

Sharon blinked.

"Who?"

"Washington.  Throwin' that dollar across the Potomac."

Black stepped toward the baggage claim area, then stopped and turned.

"Just looking at the width of that river tells you the story idn true,
can't be, but there's a lesson to be learned.  S'pect old George had
him a press secretary.  Wadn the first fish story^o come out of the
District of Columbia, and wadn the last by the longest shot imaginable.
Keep that in mind, Sharon.

You have to check out everything people tell you in this town."

Sharon said, "Right there."  She pointed to her luggage as it thumped
from the conveyor belt onto the carousel.  The skycap hopped to,
rolling his cart up next to the carousel and readying himself to grab
the suitcase as it passed.  Russell Black's two large bags were already
on the cart.  Sharon had put on her smooth beige topcoat in
anticipation of going out into the cold, and now stood back with her
hands thrust deep into fur-lined pockets.  A flight from Chicago had
landed at the same time as the plane from Dallas; the baggage claim
area was wall-to-wall humanity, welldressed men and women pumping
change into slots to rent luggage dollies, or picking out bags for a
skycap to schlep as Sharon had done.  She looked through the crowd
toward the exit doors.  A man stood beyond the railing holding a white
pasteboard sign above his head.

Sharon tugged on Russ Black's sleeve and pointed in the stranger's
direction.  Black turned.

The guy holding the sign stood among a gang of limo and taxi drivers,
but no way was he one of them.

He dressed like someone in authority and probably was, a big man with
polished shoes.  His overcoat was open to reveal a white shirt and an
expensive patterned tie looped into a square knot.  The coat looked
like a Ralph Lauren, conservative gray in color, a thousand dollars off
the rack if it was a dime.  He had iron gray hair clipped and barbered,
a strikingly handsome man around fifty years old.  black hays was
lettered on the sign in bold strokes with a Marksa-Lot.  Russ slipped
the skycap a five-dollar bill and led Sharon over toward the
well-dressed stranger.  As he neared the railing.  Black said, "I think
we're the ones you're looking for."

The man looked a bit sheepish as he folded the sign over twice, then
jammed the whole mess into a garbage container.  He came over and
extended his hand.

"It was the only way I knew to get your attention.

Leonard Smith, Mr.  Black.  Porter, Ragsdale & Jones.

I recognize Miss Hays from her pictures on TV and in the newspapers."

Black gripped and shook, then lowered his arm to his side.

"Russ.  Nobody's called me Mr.  Black since law school."

"Yeah, well."  Leonard Smith beckoned to Sharon's skycap, who now had
all of Sharon's and Russ's luggage loaded onto his cart and stood
expectantly by the conveyor.

"I have a car waiting," Smith said.  The skycap rolled the cart toward
the exit, readying ticket envelopes and claim checks for the security
guard's inspection.

Sharon had kept a deadpan look when Leonard Smith had mentioned the
name of his law firm, but now permitted her upper lip to twitch a bit.
Porter, Ragsdale & Jones was a humongous Dallas outfit with over two
hundred lawyers on the payroll, and with branches in Washington, New
York, and, let's see, Sharon thought, maybe Los Angeles as well.  She'd
heard that Porter, Ragsdale & Jones's D.C. operation was more into
lobbying than practicing law.  She wasn't surprised that Mattie Ruth
Benedict had picked attorneys with Texas roots as her local Washington
counsel, though Leonard Smith was certainly no Texan.  He had an
eastern accent, not quite the clipped Manhattanspeak that Sharon
recalled from her acting years, but very close.  If she had to guess as
to Smith's origin, she'd say New Jersey.  The vanilla Anglo surname
could easily be a pseudonym; the practice of changing one's name for
political purposes was common in Washington.  Smith's manner was as
brusque and businesslike as Russ Black's was laid-back.  Though he was
obviously doing his best not to show it, Russ was bristling; he had no
use for big civil firms and even less for attorneys who dabbled in
politics.  As she fell into step alongside Black and followed the
Washington lawyer out of the terminal, Sharon suspected that Russell
Black and Leonard Smith weren't, going to get along.

The cold was invigorating.  Tiny snowflakes peppered Sharon's cheeks in
a series of icy stings.  She walked carefully but quickly, following
Leonard Smith toward a shiny black Mercedes which waited near the curb,
moving aside to give the skycap room to roll the luggage to the rear of
the car.  Russ's breath fogged as he supervised the skycap's loading of
the bags into the trunk.  Leonard Smith held the front seat door for
her, and Sharon ducked her head to climb inside.  Her high-heeled
patent leather shoe sank down into a puddle, and freezing water sloshed
around her toes and the ball of her foot.  As she stepped onto the
Mercedes's floorboard, she sneezed.

* * *

Sharon sat in front on plush leather cushions while Russ hunkered close
behind her, breathing down her neck.  Leonard Smith kept up a flow of
tour-guide dialogue, pointing across the Boundary Channel and Jefferson
Davis Highway toward the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, then giving a
brick-by-brick description of the Lincoln Memorial, which lay dead
ahead as they rolled over the Arlington Memorial Bridge.  Never once
did he mention Mattie Ruth, Will John Benedict, or the pending murder
charges, and Sharon was pretty sure that the omission was
intentional.

As a political animal.  Smith would know on which side his bread was
buttered, and he wouldn't dare discuss the Benedict family problems
without a herd of advisors present.  Never having seen the famous D.C.
landmarks, Sharon was fascinated, but from the way that Russ shifted
around behind her she could tell that the older lawyer had had it up to
here with the travelogue.  She wondered for how long Russ would be able
to keep his mouth shut.  He breathed rapidly through his nose.  He's
about to erupt, Sharon thought, and mentally crossed her fingers.

Leonard Smith was saying, "The Grand Foyer is the size of three
football fields, and you don't want to miss the Israeli Lounge.
Stunning paintings of Old Testament scenes."  He gestured to his right,
toward the massive rectangular whiteness of the Kennedy Center for the
Performing Arts.  An overhead sign said that they were on the Rock
Creek and Potomac Parkway, headed north, and that the next right turn
would take them to the Watergate Complex.  On their left, a sliver of
snow-covered land a couple of miles long lay in the middle of the
Potomac.  Sharon mentally dialed up an undergraduate D.C. history
course she'd taken as an elective.  Roosevelt Island, she thought, and
near its northern rim was a monument to Teddy himself, Rough Rider
uniform and all.

Sharon looked over a stirring quote from JFK, which was carved into the
Kennedy Center wall.

"It's fantastic," she said.

"The tour is worthwhile," Smith said.

"Would you like to--?"

"Takin' awfully long to get where we're goin', idn it?"  Black tersely
interrupted.  Sharon inhaled a shallow breath and held it.  Russ said,
"Last time I was here we drove downtown in fifteen minutes or so."

Smith kept a bland expression, though his leather gloved hands
tightened their grip on the steering wheel.

"There are shorter routes, over the Key Bridge onto M Street, but I
thought I'd give you the cook's tour."  He smiled and waved
expansively.

"We can take a detour here and go right in front of the Watergate
Complex.

It's mainly famous for the break-in, of course, but did you know they
have apartments which are--?"

"Mr.  Smith."  Russ's tone held a soft edge.

"And don't think I'm being' rude, because that idn my nature.

But we're here on business.  I can tell that you're only playing host,
an' that you're not supposed to be talking about anything approachin'
the nature of what we're here for.  I'm not sure why you're not
discussing it, but I understand you got your orders.  But Mattie Ruth
Benedict's who we need to be seeing, as soon as we can.  Assuming we're
successful with what we're here to do, we'll be glad to see the sights
on the way outta town, but not just now."  Black sat back with an air
of finality.

"For now, sir, just get us where we're goin'.  If I want a tour guide,
the Smithsonian furnishes all of those I'll ever need."

Leonard Smith shed Russ's outburst like water off a duck's back, and
showed a pleasant but businesslike demeanor as he discontinued the tour
and pointed the Mercedes's nose downtown.  They'd taken a really
roundabout path from the airport, and Smith had to double back a couple
of times in order to reach the hotel.  Mattie Ruth Benedict had made
the sleeping arrangements in a pattern of secrecy; the State Plaza
wasn't a hotel where the media would expect Will John Benedict's pricey
defense team to stay.  It was a stone-and-glass front, twin-towered
structure on E Street.  Across the way stood a huge building that,
according to Leonard Smith, housed the State Department, and the city
map in Sharon's purse told her that they were on the opposite side of
town from the courts and Capitol Building.  Mattie Ruth's choice of
hotels was a long way from dumb; on this get-acquainted trip, she and
Russ would be more effective without a gang of reporters dogging their
steps.  The time for press conferences was later, when and if Will John
came under indictment.  Smith pulled his Mercedes up to the hotel
entry, where Sharon and Russ dropped off their luggage and obtained
card keys to their rooms, then headed for Smith's office.

During the ten-minute drive the Washington lawyer mentioned that
Porter, Ragsdale, & Jones off iced in Foggy Bottom, and his tone of
voice indicated that anyone who'd never heard of Foggy Bottom was
likely a cretin.  Sharon assumed that the location was trendy as all
get-out, and managed to act impressed even as she looked up Foggy
Bottom in her Frommer's Washington Tour Guide.  The Foggy Bottom area
was west of the White House, and so named because of the mist that used
to linger when D.C. was largely wilderness.

But now the haze in Foggy Bottom blended with the rest of the downtown
smog.  After a ten-minute drive they slowed in front of a beautiful
refurbished building that had to be a hundred years old.  To Leonard
Smith's credit, he hadn't taken any additional detours.

They parked underground, crossed under the street through a tunnel, and
entered the building.  Sharon and Russ followed Smith to the elevators,
and the trio rode to the ninth and topmost floor.  On exiting they
passed an antique oval receptionist's desk, where a chic-looking young
woman routed calls as she peered at a monitor.  She chanted in a
singsong monotone, "Porter Rags-da," listened and said, "One moment,
pleas," and then expertly swiveled her mouse to click on the caller's
extension.  The name of the law firm was in carved mahogany letters,
and a door behind the receptionist led to a medium-sized conference
room with a picture window.  Smith deposited the Texas attorneys
inside, then excused himself and disappeared down the hall.  Sharon
discarded her coat, shoulder bag, and satchel in a chair, and stood
before the window with her arms folded.  Her view was straight down
Pennsylvania Avenue.  She had distant glimpses of the Executive Office
Building and the snow-covered

White House lawn, places she'd dreamed of visiting all of her life.

Behind her.  Black said, "You think I was too short with him,
dontcha?"

She turned around.  Russ was seated at the table, which had a rustic
sheen less top and legs like varnished tree stumps.  He'd shed his
overcoat.  Sharon gave him an inquiring look.

"That guy."  Black pointed at the door where Smith had exited.

"You think I was tough on him when I shouldn'a been."

Sharon lowered her lashes.

"I thought it was out of character."

"Well you're right.  It was out of character, and it won't be the last
time you'll see me that way while we're working on this case.  You keep
playin' Good Lawyer and I'll be the heavy.  But take it from me, I've
been here before.  This is Washington, D.C. If you let people here
think you're swallowin' their line of bull, then bull is all you'll get
from them."

They cooled their heels for twenty minutes--which, Sharon was to later
reflect, was the exact amount of time that Leonard Smith was supposed
to have delayed their arrival while giving the cook's tour of the
city--before Smith returned with three men.  The men were dressed like
peas in a pod, in dark suits, snow white shirts, fifty-dollar ties, and
black-laced shoes polished like mirrors.  Sharon turned from the window
as the foursome entered.  One had sparse gray hair, the bearing and
demeanor of a man twenty years younger than he obviously was, and
seemed to be in charge.

He smiled at her and gestured palm-up toward the table.

"Sit.  Please," he said.  Sharon obeyed, sinking down into a chair
alongside her coat, purse, and satchel.  Black had been sprawled out
with his ankle resting on his knee, but now placed both feet on the
floor.

All four newcomers remained standing.

"Let me do the honors," Gray-hair said.

"I'm Boots York, Managing Partner of our Washington office.  Leonard
Smith you already know.  This"--he pointed at the youngest man in the
group, a sandy-haired blonde who looked late thirties, early forties at
the most--"is Mack Taylor, head of our trials division.  Mack did two
years with the Boston prosecutor's office before he came on board,
which qualifies him as the only member of our firm with any criminal
experience."

Mack Taylor raised a hand in greeting as Sharon nodded and smiled and
Black folded his hands.  Boots York and Mack Taylor, Sharon thought,
mentally rolling her eyes.  Good old Boots and good old Mack.  She'd
bet that there wasn't an attorney whose name ended in "stein" or
"berg,"--or in "ino" or "witz," for that matter--in the entire firm.
There would be a couple of token females and a Harvard-educated
African-American or two, but that would be the extent of the mix.  She
looked expectantly toward the remaining newcomer, who was a handsome
black with kinky hair receding from his forehead.  He was dressed in
conservative gray and had an intelligent, authoritative air.  Now this
guy is no token, Sharon thought.  All four men were slim and erect,
like cutouts from a fitness center ad.

"And this," York continued, indicating the black guy, "is Wallace
Burns."  He nodded toward Russ.

"Your reputation proceeds you, Mr.  Black.  Our pleasure."

Then he beamed at Sharon, an expression more like a leer than a
welcoming smile.

"Ah," he said, "and the famous Miss Hays.  It's an honor to meet you in
person.  I seldom miss your husband's television show."

There were five seconds of silence as Sharon's forehead tightened and
her eyebrow arched.  York's companions exchanged nervous glances.
Taylor, the blond man, started to say something, then closed his
mouth.

Sharon thought, of all the phoniness.  York was a typical stuffed
shirt, so wrapped up in himself that he paid little or no attention to
what went on in the rest of the world, and one of his cohorts had
likely told him of Sharon's connection to the star of Minions of
Justice on the way down the hall to the meeting.  The idea of Boots
York sitting around in his undershirt, slurping beer along with
America's blue-collar crowd while Rob cleaned the bad guys' clocks--and
then screwed all the rookie female officers and widows of victims as an
encore--was laughable.  Stuffed-shirt like York had been listening with
half an ear while his underlings thumb nailed Sharon's bio, and now had
managed to bungle his entry.  Sharon fumed.  She was conscious of
Russell Black on her left.  The Good Lawyer role doesn't fit me, old
boss, she thought.

York looked around at his companions.  He said, "Didn't you say she was
.. . ?"

Sharon gave her sweetest put-down smile.

"Rob Stanley and I were never married, Mr.  York.  We lived together,
and he made me pregnant."

York's expression froze, like that of a man who'd just realized that
his fly was open.  He rapidly cleared his throat and gestured to his
companions.

"Be seated, gentlemen."  All four sat as one, with the table between
them and the Texas lawyers like a line in the dirt.  Avoiding eye
contact with Sharon, York said, "You're set up to meet with Mattie Ruth
Benedict at two o'clock.  In the meantime we thought we'd bring you up
to snuff on what we've done in a preliminary vein."

Rob Stanley's wife my ass, Sharon thought.

"We'd appreciate that," she said, then watched Wallace Burns, the
authoritative-looking black man, as she continued, "I didn't catch your
position with the firm, Mr.  Burns."  She'd decided she'd better
inquire before Russ did.  Mystery men attending meetings bugged Sharon
no end, and Burns's unexplained presence would send Black into orbit.

Burns had large white teeth, which he showed in a grin.

"I'm just observing."

York took the floor before Sharon could speak again.

"I'll briefly touch on the cons, then we'll emphasize the pros," York
said.

"Congressman Benedict was having an affair with the girl.  It's common
knowledge.

You won't be able to get around that.  They have witnesses out of our
control."

Sharon was incredulous, that the guy would come right out and say such
a thing.  Whose control?  she thought.  Oh, that control.

York went on.

"We think we should take the position, have to take the position that,
okay.  Will John Benedict confesses his weakness, are you with me
there?  The public accepts apology.  Mrs.  Benedict will stand firmly
by his side.  A family in a united front will make the affair problem
go away."

Black said evenly, "In the eyes o' the public, maybe.

The eyes of the jury, that's a different matter."

"The public is the jury, Mr.  Black."  York looked around at his
cohorts, who nodded agreement.

Black's features tightened in an expression that Sharon recognized.  It
was the same look she'd seen on occasions when Russ had dressed her
down when she'd disagreed with him on trial strategy.  Sharon mentally
winced in anticipation as Black said to Boots York, "The call I got was
from Mattie Ruth Benedict.

Any particular reason why we're meetin' with you guys?"

York seemed unperturbed.  He laughed without humor.

"Let's call us the advance guard.  Senator Benedict wanted us to fill
you in on the legal status of the case."

"Which will be a big help," Black said, "as long as you don't become a
backseat driver."  He turned to Sharon.

"Miss Hays, you got any questions of these folks about what they've
been up to?"

Sharon was ready.  She whipped out a legal pad and pen, opened the pad
on the table, and prepared to take notes.

"Have you gentlemen looked at any physical evidence?  The media's put
out a lot of hints, but until one sees evidence in person ..."

The Washington lawyers exchanged looks that gave Sharon an almost
irresistible urge to giggle.  They'd expected to brush the visitors
from Texas aside like so many houseflies, but were about to learn the
hard way that intimidating Russell Black was impossible.

Black sat unmoving.  Sharon swept the other lawyers with an expectant
gaze.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Should I repeat my question?"

Finally York said, "That's Mack's bailiwick."

Mack Taylor leaned forward.  With his razored hair and manicured nails,
the blondish man fit the big-firm image as if a cookie cutter had
stamped him out and he'd just dropped off the conveyor belt.

"They have a few hair samples," he said.

"Some skin recovered from under the victim's nails.  Certain fibers,
trace evidence ..."

Sharon offered a tiny smile.

"That information was in the papers.  But have you seen any of those
items in person?"

Taylor seemed to deflate.

"I confess that I haven't."

"So."  Sharon made a note.

"Our first order of business is a trip to the forensics lab.  My job,
boss, which I'll tend to first thing in the morning."  She returned her
attention to Taylor.

"Any clue as yet who's going to prosecute?"  She was taking Will John's
indictment for granted, and hoped the Washington lawyers didn't waste a
lot of time with what-ifthisisafalse-alarm speculation.

"Why, Gregory Campisi, I'd think," Taylor said.  Sharon had never heard
the name, and looked to Russ.  Black said, "Idn he the United States
Attorney?"

Taylor looked surprised, as if Gregory Campisi's name were a household
word and Russell Black had been living in a vacuum if he didn't know
the answer to his own question.

"Right," Taylor said.

"Appointed at the beginning of the presidential term."


"And a guy you'd expect to hog the glory in a high y profile case,"
Black said.

"But I think that Miss Hays was asking' is, who's prosecutin'?"

Sharon waited for an answer.  Receiving none, she said in a feigned
helpful tone, "Who's doing the grunt work, you know?  I'm sure Mr.
Campisi isn't going to personally make trips to the law library,
interview the witnesses..."

While having minorities on the payroll wouldn't be in keeping with the
image of this white-collar law firm, the appointment of an
Italian-American to the U.S.

Attorney's post would fit right in with eastern politics.

She recalled that in South Dakota, near the Sioux Reservation, the
presidential appointee was named Harold Standing Rock.

Taylor's smile was uncertain.

"If you need the AUSDA's name, I can give Greg a buzz."

Sharon was puzzled for an instant.  Greg who?  Then it came to her.
Greg Campisi, you dodo, she thought, the U.S. Attorney guy.  Big-wheel
lawyers such as the ones across the table always pretended to be on a
first name basis with everyone important, even if they'd never met the
guy.  If the subject of the conversation had been the president of the
United States, Taylor likely would have said that he'd give Bill a
buzz.

Sharon said, "That won't be necessary, the people at forensics will
know."  She pretended to make a note, but actually wrote down, "These
guys don't know phooey," tilting her pad so that Russ could read.

"Let's see," Sharon said, "you don't know what evidence they have, and
you don't know who's prosecuting."

She folded over her legal pad.

"That's all I have, boss."

"Yeah," Black said, then mumbled, "Yeah," again before saying, "Nice to
meet you guys."  He put both hands on the table and started to rise.

York held out a restraining hand.

"Wait.  There's more."

Black relaxed, looking slightly bored.

York glanced to his left.

"Wally?"

The handsome black man, Wallace Burns, leaned into the discussion as
the others sat respectfully back.

Sharon blinked in curiosity, getting it, realizing that Wallace Burns
was the man with the real stroke around here, and that the delay in
getting from the airport to the office had been a ploy, a stall to
enable Burns to arrive on the scene before the meeting began.  Burns
took the floor.

"Mr.  Black, we defer to your knowledge of criminal law, but you should
defer to ours where the territory's concerned.  There are ways to do
things in sane society.  Unfortunately those methods seldom work in
Washington.  And face it, there are other factors to consider than Will
John Benedict."

Russ hesitated in obvious surprise.  Finally he said, "What factors?"

"The affair with the intern is something we can deal with in time,"
Burns said.

"We're working on that over at our shop.  A bigger problem is going to
be the embarrassing business with .. ."  He cut a glance at Sharon,
then looked quickly away.

She felt a twinge of amusement.

"It's quite all right, sir," she said.

"If they can discuss the size of a man's penis on national television,
far be it from me to shy daintily away from the subject.  My
observation is twofold.

First, it's Will John's father who's become the laughingstock, not him.
And second, no one can possibly look dumber than all those network
anchors pronouncing the word.  I picture this dialogue coach
going"--she made her tones round and clear, shades of her off-Broadway
days--" 'pee.  Pee.  Pee-nis."

" Russ looked embarrassed while the Washington lawyers wiped grins
away.

"Yes, then .. ."  Burns cleared his throat.

"I'm sure you can see, the girl's death is serious enough in itself.

But the .. . organ size attributed to Paul rubs off on Will John.  It
throws a cartoonish pallor over the entire mess.  Ridicule hurts us
more in ways than extramarital affairs or suspicions of murder."

Black's tone sharpened.

"I got to ask.  Who's 'us'?"

York, Smith, and Taylor exchanged looks.  Wallace Burns watched Russell
Black, two men in a sizing up mode.

"You're not with this law firm, right?"  Black said.

"You're talkin' about your shop, indicatin' it's someplace other than
here.  You a lawyer, Mr.  Burns?"

"I'm licensed, a member of the bar."  Burns gave a casual wave.

"I don't practice much.  Currently I'm a consultant."  His skin was
dark, the color of bittersweet chocolate.

"Excuse me," Black cut in, leaning more over the table.

"Don't think we're not glad to know you.  But before we launch into any
long-winded discussion, we need to know exactly what your function is."
His grin was tight, a bit less than friendly.

"For all we know, you're the prosecutor."

Burns pyramided his fingers underneath his chin.

"Rest assured I'm on your side, Mr.  Black."

Black didn't give an inch.

"Nice to know.  But so's my daughter.  I got to know what your interest
in this meetin' is before we go any further."

Burns and Russell Black locked gazes while the other three men swapped
nervous glances.  Sharon kept her expression mild but inquisitive.

Finally York said, "Wally's from another firm."

"That's somewhat enlightenin'," Black said.

"Which one?"

There were five seconds of silence before Wallace Burns said, with an
air of confidentiality, "Waters and Johnson.  We're up in Belle
Chasse."

How nice, Sharon thought.  Waters, Johnson .. .

God, they sound more like fugitives' aliases than names for politically
connected lawyers.  She suppressed a grin.

Russ^s chin lifted a fraction.

"That Mitchell Johnson?"

York leaned back.  Leonard Smith and Mack Taylor remained motionless.
Wallace Burns cleared his throat before saying, "Yes."

Sharon was confused.

"Is Mitchell Johnson someone you know, boss?"  A Martindale-Hubbell
legal directory sat on a table in the corner, and Sharon wondered if
she needed a program in order to identify the players here.

Black never took his gaze away from Burns.

"Know of," Black said.

"I've seen him on television, makin' the nine-hole turn at
Congressional.  Mitchell Johnson's the one drivin' the golf cart."

Sharon got it.  She pictured the president before a bank of
microphones, wearing a golf shirt, explaining his position on the
crisis in Iran or the war on drugs while a pale-skinned guy waited
impatiently in the background, chomping at the bit to go on to the back
nine.  She said merely, "Oh."

"

"Oh' is right."  Black placed his elbows on his armrests and
intertwined his fingers in front of his midsection.

"Mattie Ruth Benedict know about this?"

York's features tightened into a defensive scowl.

"Of course.  On a matter this delicate, we wouldn't make a move without
consulting her."

"No, I mean about him."  Black pointed across the table at Wallace
Burns.

"Does she know about him sittin' in?"

York cleared his throat.  Burns nervously tugged on his lapel.  No one
said anything.

"About what I thought."  Black reached for his coat, which he'd tossed
over an adjacent chair back.

"Okay, gentlemen, rules are: Mattie Ruth called us about representin'
her son on potential criminal charges.  That's what we'll do, represent
Will John Benedict.  Which dudn include progress reports to the
Democratic Party about defense strategy, or helping out with any press
relations.  Gettin' votes is your business.  Defending against criminal
charges is ours.  Whatever Will John or his mother wants to tell you is
up to them, but you're not getting anything more from us."  He glared
at York.

"You say we're to meet with Mattie Ruth at two o'clock?"

York turned his palms up.

"That's the schedule."

Black stood and lifted his overcoat.

"We'll be there, then.  Good day to you all

Sharon stood as well, the backs of her knees bumping her chair and
pushing it back.

"It's imperative I keep the Party up-to-date," Burns said.

"You wouldn't believe how critical all of this is."

"What's important to you," Black said, "idn necessarily important to
us."  He took a long stride toward the door.

York looked at Leonard Smith, who took his cue and got up from his
seat.

"I'll drop you," he said.

"Appreciate the offer," Black said.

"But if it's all the same, we'll take a cab."  He turned on his heel
and left the room.

Sharon snatched up her belongings and followed after Black.  She'd
reached the threshold, the oval desk, and the receptionist visible
through the doorway, when Burns called out, "Miss Hays."

Russ gave her an impatient look from near the hallway exit.  She smiled
diplomatically, raised one finger in Black's direction, then stepped
back inside the conference room.

"Yes?"  she said.

Burns glanced around at his companions.  He was obviously searching for
words.  He said, "We watched you on television in the Daria Cowan
hearings.  Quite impressive."

Sharon didn't feel particularly flattered.  She moved her topcoat from
one forearm to the other, and adjusted the strap on her shoulder bag.

Burns smirked conspiratorily, and lowered his voice.

"But if I may offer a word to the wise, homespun only plays well on
politicians.  Being quaint and rustic won't go over with the courts in
this town."

Sharon glanced quickly over her shoulder toward the reception area.

"You mean Russ?"

Burns nodded.

"I'm sure it's fine in Texas, but .. ."

He spread his hands, palms up.

Sharon stiffened in reflex.

"Where he's performing in front of a jury of hicks?"

Burns looked down.  York put a hand on Burns's arm and interjected,
"I'm sure Wally didn't mean--" "Oh, I'm sure he did, sir."  She took a
step closer to the conference table.

"I did quite a bit of time in New York."

Burns smiled.

"So we're heard.  Onstage."

Sharon nodded angrily.

"Where the eastern idea of Texans is a series of corny caricatures.  I
had to reinvent myself, take diction lessons to change my accent in
order to conform with the artsy-fartsy Manhattan ideas, because I knew
no one would consider me for a serious role until I did.  Thank God
Russ doesn't have to put on any airs."

She paused to allow her words to sink in, shifting her weight from one
foot to the other.

"We're not all straight from The Best Little Whorehouse, gentlemen.

J. R. Ewing was a figment of a Hollywood scriptwriter's imagination.
And for your information, Russell Black knows more law than the lot of
you combined, not to mention the eleven consecutive acquittals on his
record.  And I ..."  She closed her mouth.  Sweet Christ, why was she
always losing it at the wrong time?

She hugged her coat to her chest, getting a hold on her emotions.

"Sorry for the outburst, folks," she said.

"And good day to you.  I'm sure that before this is over, we'll all be
talking again."


Sharon watched through the backseat window as the taxi cruised down
Independence Avenue and passed the Capitol Building.  It was snowing
for real, large cottony flakes, which stuck to the sidewalks and melted
on the taxi's engine-warmed hood.  A surge of patriotism flowed through
her as she bent sideways to peer up at the Capitol dome and thought of
God, Patrick Henry, John Hancock, Abe Lincoln, Davy Crockett, young and
handsome JFK, names she'd studied in history class.  She pictured
senators and representatives scurrying through the corridors or hotly
debating issues on the floor, their jaw muscles bulging as they fought
for the public good.  Then another image came to her, those same
senators and reps groping their privates as they peered up dresses worn
by female pages and interns.  The awestruck feeling left her.  She
turned away from the window toward Russell Black, who silently read
that day's Washington Post story about the murdered girl and Will John
Benedict.

Today's "shocking" revelation came from a woman who, while walking her
rottweiler in the snow, claimed to have seen Will John and Courtney Lee
arguing on a street corner three nights before the crime.  Sharon
sighed and leaned back against the cushions.  It was stifling inside
the cab.  She considered asking the driver to turn down the heater,
then changed her mind.  Visible beneath the clicking meter, the
dashboard clock showed a quarter till two.

A block and a half past the Capitol the cabbie pulled to the curb in
front of two buildings connected by walkways, the eastern most of which
had narrow two story windows.  On the facade facing the street were
artistic drawings of working men, their muscles straining as they
toiled, their eyes shaded under the brims of their hard hats.

The driver slid the partition aside and turned around.

"Hart Building on the left," he said in a tourist-info monotone,
"Dirksen Building on the right, that's where your senator's at.  If she
ain't, try the Russell Building back there."  He pointed a block behind
them.

"All kinda senators wandering around them buildings.

That'll be nine-fifty."  He held out his hand.  Black deposited a ten
and a couple of singles, which the driver looked over without
enthusiasm, then held the door for Sharon as they alighted in the cold.
The taxi's wheels spun in slush as it fishtailed out into traffic.  An
inch of snow covered the sidewalk as Black escorted Sharon toward the
Dirksen Building.  She was freezing.

She wished that she'd brought her galoshes.

They were in luck.  The Dirksen Building's lobby receptionist directed
them to Mattie Ruth's office, and they rode up in the elevator.  Black
pinched his reddened nose as the doors rumbled open.

Fine minutes later they waited in leather armchairs while Mattie Ruth
Benedict's assistant went in to announce their arrival.  The Stars 'n
Stripes hung from a pole in one corner of the reception area, with the
Lone Star flag of Texas drooping alongside.  A floor to-ceiling
bookcase exhibited Texas Almanacs, U.S.

and Texas history books, along with doorstop-sized bios of LBJ, Sam
Rayburn, Stephen F. Austin, and Dwight D. Eisenhower.  At various
locations around the room hung photos of Mattie Ruth in action,
addressing the Senate, striding purposefully across the Capitol lawn,
on the deck of a yacht along with Barbara Bush and Jackie 0. One of the
photos showed the greeting line at a White House reception.  Sharon
blinked as she zeroed in on Senator Benedict shaking hands with Hillary
Clinton while the Chief Executive chatted with the president of China.
Prominent in the background stood Paul Benedict himself, dressed in a
tux, his steel gray hair perfectly combed, his cobalt blue eyes fierce,
his jaw jutted out.  Sharon's upper lip curled.

Mattie Ruth's assistant, an attractive thirtyish woman with jet black
hair, returned to say, "The senator will see you now."  Black nodded,
stood, and hurried past the reception desk.  Sharon started to follow.
She had a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach and her knees
turned to jelly, and for just an instant she feared she would faint
dead away.

The meeting with the Washington lawyers plus thoughts of problems at
home with Melanie had temporarily shoved the Benedict family to the
back of her mind.

Now the past rushed upon her, the awful night ten years ago in the
Austin foothills and, even worse, her choice to sweep the attempted
rape under the rug while accepting what amounted to a bribe.  She
should have turned the bastard in.  Of course she should have.

Would give anything if she'd told Paul Benedict's lawyer where to put
his freaking contract, and picked up the phone and called the police,
right then and there.

She pictured the scene as it should have been, Sharon Hays fearlessly
pointing her finger at Paul Benedict from the witness stand.  Like her
ages-ago dreams of stage and movie stardom, a fantasy that never was
and never would be.

Oddly enough she dreaded facing Mattie Ruth even more than seeing Will
John or.  God forbid, Paul Benedict himself, because a face-to-face
meeting with Mattie Ruth would intensify the feelings of guilt that
Sharon had harbored for all these years.  Christ, the guy had beaten
the hell out of her and tried to yank her panties down, yet she
couldn't help feeling that she was somehow at fault.  When she'd been a
prosecutor she'd listened to countless stories from rape victims who,
blameless as they were, wondered if they'd done something to provoke
the attack.  She recalled one young woman, raped and sodomized at
seventeen, who two years later was afraid to appear in a bathing suit
and wore severely cut clothing that hid her body.

Sharon's phobia had never reached those proportions, but then the rape
hadn't been successful, had it?  Had Paul Benedict been able to finish
the job, Sharon wondered what her feelings would have been today.  Of
all the people I'd hoped never to see again, Sharon thought.  She
straightened, catching the look of alarm from the senator's assistant
as she continued on her way.

"I'm fine," she said over her shoulder.

"Just a sinking spell.  Jet lag."  Then she finned her posture, took a
deep breath, and went on in to say hello to the senator from Texas.
She'd as soon have taken a beating.

She hadn't anticipated seeing Will John so soon, and stood by and
locked gazes with the tortured congressman while his mother gave
hug-hugs to Russ and kissed him on the cheek.  Will John Benedict was
seated on a sofa across the room, looking alone and very afraid.  He'd
been a soft-faced young man as a law student and had aged rapidly, his
jowls thickening and drooping.  Sharon tried to offer a helpful smile.
As she did, Mattie Ruth turned to her and extended both hands.

"Let me look at you, Sharon Hays.  This is a helluva long way from
Nacho Louie's.  Paul always said you were one of his top students, and
danged if time hasn't proved him right.  I told him last night you were
coming, and he couldn't believe it."

Sharon's smile felt frozen on her face.  I'll just bet he couldn't, she
thought.  She endured a cheeks-touching routine with Mattie Ruth, the
odor of makeup wafting up her nostrils, though her gaze never left Will
John Benedict.  She said without looking at Mattie Ruth, "You've come a
long way yourself, Mrs.  Benedict."

"Mattie Ruth.  Come on, come on, take a load off."

The senator gestured toward a love seat and pair of armchairs, then sat
behind her desk.  Her voice was an octave higher and her down-home
accent a couple of shades thinner than when she'd wowed the nation
during the Democratic convention, but her rural Texas upbringing was
evident.  Mattie Ruth had an educated manner and finishing school
bearing, yet tempered the sophisticated package with charm straight
from Bug Tussle, U.S.A. The senator was a graduate of Baylor U."  a
good-looking charismatic woman, a campaign manager's dream.  Sharon
didn't think Mattie Ruth had aged ten years' worth since she'd last
seen her, though there was more gray in her hair.  Sharon wondered if
the wool was completely over Mattie Ruth's eyes where her husband was
concerned, or if political ambition had caused her to stick her head in
the sand and ignore the obvious.  Neither scenario was flattering to
Mattie Ruth.  In the first situation she looked a fool;

in the second she'd given away her self-esteem.  Fame and power aside,
Sharon wouldn't trade places with Mattie Ruth Benedict for all the tea
in China.  No, Miss Sharon-on-a-Pedestal, she thought, you wouldn't do
such a thing.  But you would sell your mortal soul for a mess of
pottage, which is what you did after Paul Benedict tried to rape you.
She forced a smile as guilt surged through her in waves.

Sharon accepted the invitation to sit.

The senator was tall and elegant in a wool business suit and high
heels.  Her hair was done in soft curls.

Her corneas were gray like the streaks in her hair, and there were tiny
worry lines around her eyes.

Though Mattie Ruth seemed gracious and composed, her hands trembled.
She gave Russ a weary smile.

"How was your trip?"

Russ exhaled as if he was at the point of exhaustion.

"Tirin'."  He extended a hand in the direction of the sofa.  Will John
got up, limply gripped Russ's hand,

then sank back down.  Russ said, "Been a long time, son.  Wish the
circumstances were different."

"Hope the flight wasn't too early for you," Mattie Ruth interrupted.

"We told the press you'd be comin' in around three this afternoon.  I
expect in about an hour there'll be cameras all over Reagan National.

How's the little daughter, Russell?"

"She's twenty-three and a college graduate."

"No."  Mattie Ruth's tone was incredulous.

"We're not getting' any younger, Mattie," Black said.

He shared a brief laugh with Mattie Ruth, then resignedly cleared his
throat.

"Hate to get right to the point, but .. ."

Mattie Ruth looked down at her lap, then slowly raised her chin.

"Not as much as I hate your havin' to bring it up."  She seemed to
brace herself.

"Will John's ready to fight the fight, Russell.  My boy didn' do this.
He told me face to face."

Will John looked down at his knees.  His thick razored hair was parted
on the right, JFK style, the modern candidate's appearance being more
important come election time than his stand on the issues.  He wore a
light gray suit.  This man is thirty-five years old, Sharon thought,
and his mother is still doing the talking for him.  She restrained her
pity, and looked back to the senator.

Russ's expression turned serious.

"It's good to know he didn'.  We'll be talkin' about that today, among
other things.  Not the least of which is the meetin' we just had with
your local lawyers."

Mattie Ruth's tone was dismissive and offhanded.


"That was Paul's idea, a lawyer-to-lawyer meeting be y fore Will John
saw you.  Boots York was speaking as a lawyer.  I'm talkin' as a
mother.  You should know the difference."

"

"Course I know the difference," Black said.

"And that part's okay.  But what about the guy that was speakin' as a
Democrat?"

Mattie Ruth watched him.  Her head tilted inquisitively.

"You know Wallace Burns?"  Black asked.

"Wally was there?"  The senator's surprise was genuine.

"He was the main ramrod.  The whole idea was to keep the Party
up-to-date with what's goin' on.  You know I can't stand politics,
Mattie.  How'd you let 'em send that guy?"

Mattie Ruth's expression of surprise dissolved into a political mask,
an impersonal, guarded smile.

"I'll have to ask Boots about that."  Which she really didn't have to,
Sharon knew; five would get ten that Boots York had called Mattie Ruth
within minutes of the Texas lawyers' departure, filling the senator in
on every detail of the meeting.  Worried and frightened as Mattie Ruth
might seem in private, every speck of hesitancy would disappear the
moment she stood before the cameras.  Sharon had known actresses with
the same chameleon like quality; there was, in fact, little to choose
between the psyches of politicians and those of movie stars.

Black's mouth tightened.

"If that's the way you want to leave it, then we'll leave it that way.
But sendin' a political consultant to a meeting that was supposed to be
about defending a murder case, that wadn right.

You know it and I know it.  Dammit, Mattie.  We both know who's paying
my fee.  But I can't talk about the case to anybody except my client,
no matter where my money's coming from."

Mattie Ruth's eyebrows lifted.

"He can account for his whereabouts every moment of that night.  I'm
not sayin' my son is a saint, Russell, but he's no murderer."

Black paused, then kept his tone gently firm as he said, "We need to
hear that from him, Mattie.  In private.

Conversations between you and Will John are admissible in court, so
it's best you don't have any more talks with him about the murder.  If
it was Paul under investigation you'd have husband-wife privilege.

The privilege dudn extend to your child."

The senator's mouth trembled.

"I had to know, so I asked him."

Black expelled a long breath and seemed deep in thought.  He glanced at
Will John, then finally said to Mattie Ruth, "Why'd you have to
know?"

"Because I'm his mother, dammit."

"That's what I'm getting at.  Whether he did it or didn' do it, he's
not gonna lose your support.  So why ask?"

"He could lose his father's support.  As of now Paul's with him, but
you know Paul."

Will John sat stoically on the couch.  Sharon couldn't believe it,
Mattie Ruth discussing a full-grown man as if he were a baby, right
there in front of the guy.

Black crossed his legs and intertwined his fingers over his knee.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot about Paul.  To him guilt or innocence would make a
difference."

Sharon was stunned, both by the matter-of factness in Russ's tone and
the bluntness of his statement.  Up to this moment Russ had acted as if
Paul Benedict had hung the moon.  So you don't think my old Torts prof
is perfect, eh, boss?  Sharon thought.  Well, before this case is put
to bed I may have a story to tell you.

She couldn't imagine anyone turning their back on their own child,
murder charges or no.  But if anyone could, she thought, Paul Benedict
is certainly the man.

Mattie Ruth nodded agreement.

"Paul has an agenda the size of Houston over punishin' the guilty.  The
guilty being his own flesh and blood wouldn't matter.

He'd throw Will John to the dogs if he thought he did this."

Christ, Sharon thought.  Paul Benedict has a thing about punishing the
guilty?  What about his own freaking punishment?  Jesus, God .. .

"Mattie," Black said, "you want to help all you can, that's
understandable.  So for now, dealin' with your husband is your number
one assignment.  Keep Paul on our side, at least until this is over.
Above everything, you and Paul have got to show a unified front.

Where's he now?"

"On the coast, in a tobacco lawsuit."

"That has to change," Black said.

"He should be here by morning.  The damn liberal press has got to see
Will John's folks standin' behind him."

Mattie Ruth leaned back in her chair.  Her eyes were damp.

"I'll call him.  I can't promise he'll come."

"If worse comes to worse, tell him that if he dudn put in an appearance
in forty-eight hours, he'll be dealing with me."  Black winked.

"That may put the fear o' God into him."

The senator watched the veteran lawyer.  Her smile was sad.

"It might at that," she said.

"Get him here, Mattie.  Me and Miss Hays got plenty to do without
fieldin' questions as to why Will John's daddy's not here to back him
up."

"He'll have the tobacco suit as an excuse, if he wants to use it."

"Bull.  A crisis like this will get him a continuance from any civil
judge in captivity.  As a last resort, tell him I'm willin' to fry him
in the press over his lack of interest.  We need him."  Black looked to
Sharon for reinforcement.

"Right, Miss Hays?"

Sweet Jesus and all the angels, Sharon thought.  Now she was supposed
to pretend that having Paul Benedict on the scene meant the world to
her.  She should have leveled with Russ back in Dallas, bowed her neck,
and refused to get involved in this mess.  She said softly, "Right,
boss."

Black checked his watch.

"I'm still on Texas time.

But we need an hour or two with our client.  Your office okay?"  He
looked toward the exit.  Outside on the windowsill, two pigeons pecked
around in the snow.

Mattie Ruth opened a drawer, dropped some pencils and pens inside, and
started to rise.

"Suppose we'd better retire to my anteroom."

"Not you, Mattie."  Russ's folksy manner dissolved.

"Just me and Miss Hays and our client."

Will John showed a sheepish look.  He wouldn't cross his mother if his
life depended on it, Sharon thought.

Mattie Ruth seemed determined.

"There's nothin'

you can discuss that Will John wouldn't want me to hear."

Russ expelled a long sigh.

"Maybe.  But there's things / might not want you in on."

The senator showed a flash of anger.

"Anything involving my son is my business, Russell."

"Forget he's your son, then.  He's our client.  No outsiders, period,
including you."

The senator and the veteran lawyer locked gazes for a count of three.
Mattie Ruth gave in first.

"Keep me up-to-date."

"That'll be up to Will John, whatever he wants you to know."  Black's
expression softened.

"You got to trust me, Mattie, it's better this way.  Get on the phone
to your husband, you hear?"  He turned to Sharon and extended a hand
toward the rear exit from the office.

"Miss Hays," Black said.  Will John got up from the sofa and trudged
resignedly to the door.

Sharon hefted her satchel and shoulder bag, and stood.  She said
politely, "Nice to see you again, Senator."

Mattie Ruth seemed at first not to hear.  She spoke to Black in a
commanding tone.

"Don't you dare let me down on this, Russell."  Her gaze shifted to
Sharon, an appraising look.

"The pleasure's mine, Sharon," Mattie Ruth said in a dismissive tone.

Sharon didn't have time to feel miffed as she turned and left through
the senator's rear exit.  She'd made up her mind to be ready; ghosts of
the worst months of her life were about to leap at her from all
directions, and she simply had to keep her cool.  Her expression firm
and businesslike, Sharon drew a tiny breath.  She followed her
congressman client out of the room, doing her best to forget that she
despised his father more, than anyone else in the world.

Sharon might not have recognized Will John Benedict if she'd
accidentally bumped into him.  God, he looked so old, and she had to
remind herself that Will John was within a year either way the same age
as she.  Sharon considered his affair with an intern co-ed, and
wondered how on earth the girl could have been attracted.  While Sharon
might not've recognized the man himself she'd have certainly recalled
his expression, the uncertainty about the eyes as if he'd never made
his own decisions in life.  Which he hadn't very often; between his
mother, his father--and now Cassandra (Marry-for political-clout) Mason
nee Benedict--Sharon suspected that it took a village to pick out which
tie Will John was going to wear.  In the far-distant past Sharon had
pitied Will John, but at least in law school he'd seemed like a live
human being.  The man who now sat in the senator's anteroom across from
Sharon and Russell Black seemed more like a drawing, an artist's
conception of a campaign billboard ad.

The smaller office had a cozier atmosphere, with couches and chairs
encircling an antique wood coffee table.  In the corner was a big
screen TV and VCR, set up alongside a mock fireplace with papier mache
logs.  As soon as the attorneys had settled into their seats, Will John
said, "Thanks for excluding my mother from this.  It's been a long
time, Mr.  Black."

He nodded to Sharon, stood, and offered his hand.

"And you.  You've become quite a celebrity."

His attitude was businesslike, and she was relieved that he didn't fawn
over her; had he shown the same mooning look as when she'd ended their
relationship, she didn't know if she could have dealt with him.  His
grip was cool and firm, and Sharon held on to his hand a second longer
than necessary in order to think of a response.  Something like,
"You're quite well known yourself" wouldn't be appropriate after the
publicity blitz Will John had received over the past week, and any
reference to old law school memories might be painful to both of them.
She looked to his eyes for a sign, an indication as to whether he felt
discomfort in seeing her, but his expression was direct and mild.
Finally she opted for, "Hey, great to see you," and let it go at
that.

Sharon and Russ occupied cushioned armchairs.

Will John sat down on a love seat with springy cushions, with a coffee
table between him and the lawyers.

"The meeting at Porter, Ragsdale & Jones wasn't my idea," he said.

"I want you to know that."

Russ leaned forward, serious.

"I never thought it was.  Forget them.  Every Democrat in Washington
will be stickin' his nose into your business.  You're suspected of a
murder, son.  You've got no obligation to the Party or anybody except
yourself.  Startin' here and now, don't discuss this with anybody,
advisors or the Pope of Rome."

"I'll take your advice," the congressman said, "but know this.  I
haven't murdered anyone.  This whole mess is nothing but political
mud-slinging, blown entirely out of proportion.  No matter what, it

can't inter 3

fere with business as usual."  He glanced quickly at Sharon, then
looked away.

"Come on.  That's a rehearsed speech," Black said.

"Hell's bells, it even sounds rehearsed.  An' I'll agree that politics
might be part of it, but let me tell you what idn mud-slinging. There's
a dead girl.  Somebody killed her.  The evidence, at least what's been
in the papers, points to you as that somebody.  Prosecutors are no
different in Dallas, Washington, or Timbuktu.

If they didn' think they had a case they wouldn't be poppin' off.  And
if you think we might interfere with business as usual, a life sentence
in the penitentiary will do a damn sight more than that.

"What we have to offer is exactly what your mother's payin' for.  The
best defense money can buy, from two attorneys who've got no political
motives and don't need the publicity.  From day one in this, anybody
that acts interested in your case has their own horn to blow.  We
don't.  Don't ask for advice anyplace but right here."  He jerked his
thumb toward his own chest, then pointed at Sharon.

Will John lost it.  He cradled his face in his hands.

"I've never dealt with anything like this."

"That's true of most folks," Black said.

Will John leaned back, watched his lap for a moment, and then slowly
raised his chin.

"I suppose we've got a lot to discuss."

Black rested his forearms on his legs, his tie hanging down between his
thighs.

"You bet.  For starters, we need you to tell us everything that
happened from the time you first laid eyes on this dead girl until you
walked into this room a few minutes ago.  Don't leave anything out.
We'll determine what is and idn important later."

Will John's features finned into an earnest politician's look.

"That young woman may have been reading more into the relationship than
there was.  Sometimes these pages and interns get starry-eyed."

Black and Sharon looked at each other.  Black said, "I think our
client's already makin' a mistake.  Miss Hays."

Will John showed puzzlement, which Sharon recognized as more political
posturing.  Less than half a day in the nation's capital, she was
learning the ropes.  She inhaled and let the congressman have it, as
gently as possible but with both barrels.

"What Russ means is, lying to your attorneys is a foul-up.  Look, Will
John, that last statement is beyond corny.  The victim's roommate, her
name is .. ."  She looked at Black for help.

Russell Black shrugged his shoulders.

Will John Benedict said, "Melissa.  Melissa Rudolph."

"Odd you're so familiar with the name," Sharon said.

"Right, Melissa Rudolph.  She's been all over television with a
blow-by-blow of your affair with her roomie, and she's detailed your
comings and goings to such an extent that I suspect the prosecution's
been writing her script.  The Democratic Party's investigated the
allegations, and their spokesman told us earlier today that the sexual
fling existed and there's no way around it.  So don't lie about it, and
that goes if we're your lawyers or someone else is.  Lying about your
affair with Courtney Lee will make you look stupid,

and in this instance stupid will translate into guilty as hell with a
jury."

"Will John looked as if he'd been lashed with a whip.

"Sharon, I ..."

Sharon softened her attitude.

"Russ has known your folks for years, and you and I went to law school
together.  You look on us differently than someone who just wandered
in, and that's understandable.  But please don't make the mistake of
worrying about what I think, or what Russ thinks.  What the jury's
going to think is all that matters, from here on in."

The congressman's gaze wavered when Sharon mentioned their time in law
school, as if he wondered how much Russ knew about their past
connection.  She'd been hoping that Will John had developed some
backbone in the past ten years or so, and felt disappointment as the
congressman stammered and grasped at straws.

"If there ever is a jury," he said.

Black cut in.

"That kind of talk is even worse than denyin' the affair.  Any
speculation that this is going away is nothin' but fantasy.  Listen to
me.  Here's what's real.  There's goin' to be an indictment and there's
goin' to be a trial, and you're about to enter burnin' hell.  I know
that's tough to swallow, but I'd be derelict if I didn't lay it out for
you."  He watched the congressman carefully.

"The story, son.  All of it, and now, or you won't have to worry about
us anymore.

Miss Hays and me will be on the next thing smokin' back to Texas, if we
don't get cooperation from you."

Will John tightly shut his eyes, and massaged his lids with a thumb and
forefinger.

"Christ.  Cas doesn't even know the whole story."

Black frowned.

"That's your wife?"

Will John opened his eyes, visibly sagging like a man facing defeat no
matter which way he turned.  He said softly, "Sharon knows her.  Or
did.  Sharon, you remember .. . ?"

"Cassandra Mason, yes," she said.

"She was in school when we were."

"Oh?  She practice law?"  Russ's interest picked up.

Will John shook his head.

"She never went beyond a bachelor's.  When we got married after her
graduation, she became a full-time housewife.  This is going to kill
her."

"She won't die over anything we're going to tell her," Black said.

"We're your lawyers, and as such we expect you to start talkin' to
us."

Will John drew breath.

"Up front, please know it was the intern who made the first
advances."

Sharon's mouth tightened.  That's what they all say, she thought. Catch
a married man screwing around, always the same song.

"I don't think who hit on who really matters at this point," Sharon
said.

"Stick to the facts, what happened.  If any spin needs to be put on the
facts, let us do it."

The congressman vacantly watched the far corner of the room.

"Miss Lee went to work for us when the fall term began.  She did
filing, a few errands ... I should never have been alone in the
building with her."

"That's a given."  Sharon was nettled.

"It's also, to be blunt, whiny.  If you try to say that this young girl
threw herself into your lap uninvited and unzipped your fly, no one's
going to believe you.  There is no way, given the age difference and
the fact that she was a member of your staff, you're going to avoid
being looked on as a sexual predator.  But we have to paint a scenario
where you're not a murderer, no matter how much you took advantage of
this inexperienced college girl."

Will John showed an expression of hurt.  He looked down.

"She had plenty of experience."

If she had more experience than Will John Benedict, Sharon thought,
that isn't saying much.  She said, "That's something we might be able
to use at the appropriate time.  Which isn't now.  We're not making any
progress, so let's try something different.  I haven't laid eyes on you
in about ten years.  People change.

Assume I don't know you at all, okay?  Assume that for all I know, you
were bending interns over your desk right and left."  Sharon blinked,
thinking.

"So, acting under the assumption that I believe you're Horny Harry
Harasser, which is the way the police and prosecutors will paint you,
I'll ask questions.

Make your answers brief.  That way we might be through here before
nightfall.  You see a problem with that, boss?"

Black dug in his inside coat pocket.

"Exactly what I was thinkin'."  He set a miniature tape recorder on the
coffee table and depressed the rec button.  Visible through clear
plastic, tiny reels began to turn.

"Just so we won't worry later about who said what to who."

Will John eyed the tape recorder as if it might fly off the table and
hit him between the eyes.

"It's just for our benefit."  Sharon sat forward, all business now.

"We're your lawyers, and nothing you say here goes beyond this room.
Think hard.  Congressman.

When was the first time you remember meeting Courtney Lee?"

Will John showed a thoughtful look.

"I'm sure it was early summer.  My secretary gives all new people the
cook's tour, and I'm one of the visited landmarks."

"But you don't have an independent recollection?"

"Afraid I don't.  She meant nothing to me at first."

"Which wasn't true at the last, right?"  Sharon said.

"Who's your secretary?"

"Elaine Trowell.  The D.C. police have already talked to her."

"Doesn't matter," Sharon said.

"We'll be treading a lot of ground that the police have already
covered.

Would Elaine Trowell have a record of when she might've introduced
Courtney Lee to you?"

"She'd have a record of when Miss Lee came on board."

"Courtney," Sharon said.

"Courtney.  Call her by her first name at all times.  Trying to
distance yourself from this young woman, especially since everybody in
America knows by now that you were screwing her, sounds phony as hell.
Now.  Would Elaine Trowell have a record of when she introduced
Courtney to you?"

Will John's eyes seemed glazed over.

"Elaine has a record of everything.  She's very efficient."

Sharon made a note.  An interview with Elaine Trowell had just become
high priority.

"Since you don't remember your original introduction," Sharon said,
"what's the first contact with Courtney that you do recall?"

Will John cleaned his fingernails with a the file extension from a pair
of clippers.  His hands trembled.

"She was the one delivering my mail.  I've since learned that she took
the mail delivery on herself, with no prompting.  As if she was bound
and determined to meet me.  I suppose I first noticed her because she
seemed to have a lot of excuses to linger.  I remember once I had to
ask her to leave so I could take a call from the Speaker."

"Gingrich?"

Will John nodded.

"Our committee was late with its report.  Nothing catastrophic."

"Would the Speaker recall that incident?"

"I don't know why.  We've had a lot of phone conversations, and there
wasn't anything memorable about that particular one."

Sharon scratched through Gingrich's name, which she'd just written
down.  So much for Newt, Sharon thought.

"How about someone, anyone, who could verify that she spent more time
in your office than necessary?"

"Elaine would remember," Will John said.

"She commented on the girl's forwardness."

Which apparently was no worse than your own, Sharon thought.  She said,
"Specifically, how was she forward?"

"She would .. . Most of our interns are really shy around me, but not
this one.  She'd say things like, well, she had no one to show her
around Washington at night, that the college kids were immature, things
like that."

Twisted your arm, did she?  Sharon thought.

"Will John, we simply have to move on with this, so please quit
embellishing.  Once and for all, and for the umpteenth and last time.
Do not, under any circumstances, try to play down your participation in
the affair even if you are telling the truth.  If you were sitting
around reading Family Values magazine and Courtney walked up and
squeezed your privates, leave that part out.  As much as us older
broads are in denial from the truth, youth itself is highly seductive.
The men on the jury will sympathize if you made a pass, but if you try
to say that she put the moves on, they'll think you're the biggest
bullshitter in captivity.  The women are going to roast you no matter
what you say, so concentrate on the men.  And if I sound rude and
uncaring it's because we need the slimmed-down version.  You'll have a
chance to give an editorial later.  I'm assuming your secretary wasn't
in your office when the girl was wrapping herself around you, so she
couldn't testify to it anyway.  Specifically, how was Courtney Lee
forward when she was around Elaine Trowell?"

"I believe Elaine said, how did she put it?  That Miss Lee didn't take
instruction particularly well."

"Which isn't evidence that she was hot for your body, is it?"  Sharon
said.

"Think on this overnight and give us your answer later.  We need any
witnesses we can find to say that the girl didn't seem averse to the
affair even if she didn't initiate it.  If we have only your word, that
won't get us very far.  Now.  When was the first time you saw her away
from the office?  And stop frowning as if you're in thought.  Since you
were sleeping with her, I'll venture you recall the first time down to
the split second."

Will John haughtily sniffed in through his nose.

"That certainly wasn't my original intention, to go to bed with her."

"Just answer the questions.  If you sampled the girl's goodies you
intended to do so.  Your intent will be obvious to the jury long before
you take the stand in your own defense, so please spare us the 'holier
than thou' act.  It doesn't wear well."

Will John showed anger that was obviously feigned.

"I don't have to sit here and put up with this.  Mr.

Black .. ."

"Miss Hays is asking' all the right questions," Black said.

"And if you think she's being' tough on you, wait until you see the
prosecutor in action.  Wild tales about your intentions, even if they
were true, make you sound like a liar."  Black held up his middle and
index fingers, side by side.

"Two things when you're facing criminal charges.  One, don't lie.
Eventually you'll trip up.  If you're guilty, keep your mouth shut.  If
you're not, picture the truth the way it's gonna sound to others.

If the truth sounds ridiculous, then spin the truth until it sounds
believable.  Shouldn' be hard for you, considering your political
background."  The older lawyer looked at Sharon.

"Miss Hays, I think you can go on now."

Sharon tapped her ballpoint against her chin.

"I'll repeat.  When was the first time you saw Courtney Lee outside the
office?"

Will John seemed resigned.

"In July."

"Mmm-hmm.  Six months ago."

"I'd been in a judiciary committee meeting very late, until after nine.
Considering nominees for the federal bench.  I came back to the office
to go over some things, and Miss Lee, Courtney that is, Courtney was
there doing some filing.  One thing led to another .. ."

"Who gave Courtney the key to the office?  Was it your secretary?"
Sharon asked.

Will John seemed at a loss for words.

Sharon chewed her inner lip.

"No one is going to believe that your staff gives interns the run of
the office, key and all, with all those sensitive documents laying
around.  So if she was there doing filing at nine o'clock, someone gave
her a key to get in.  Was it your secretary?"

"Possibly," Will John said hopefully, then lowered his eyes as he said,
"It's doubtful."

"Now you're getting it," Sharon said.

"Of course your secretary didn't give her a key, and wouldn't have been
authorized to do so to begin with.  Which leaves you as the only one
with that authority.  Which means the meeting was prearranged, and if
you try to say it wasn't, the prosecution will eat you for lunch.

Are things becoming clearer?"

Will John opened, and then closed, his mouth.

Sharon said, "Okay.  When she showed up for a little hotsy-totsy after
you'd given your wife the standard working-late excuse, where did you
two go?"

Will John tried his best to appear angry, but managed only a frightened
stare.

"Do you have to put it that way?"

"Why not?  The prosecution's certainly going to.

Where did you go?"

"A place ... the Green Lantern Bar."

"Which is where?"  Sharon said.

"Falls Church."

Sharon leaned back, showing an inquisitive look.

"In Virginia," Will John said.

"Oh?  And how far from your office?"

"Ah .. . thirty miles, maybe."

"So you wanted to go where you wouldn't be seen.

I'll lay odds you went in separate cars."

Will John looked at her.

"Did you have sex with her that night?"  Sharon said.

"Possibly."

"Where?"

"A ... Holiday Inn, I think."

"It's a step up from Motel 6," Sharon said, "but not much of one.  And
to ensure that you'd be incognito, I'll bet you had Courtney register
and get the room key.  God, Will John, forget trying to convince anyone
that she was leading you around by the ear and forcing you to have sex
with her."  She turned to Russ.

"What do you think, boss?"

Black thoughtfully watched the congressman, then said with a wry cant
to his mouth, "I think this witness is going to require a lotta
preppin'."

"Bingo," Sharon said.

"Let's discontinue this session until tomorrow afternoon after I have a
chance to talk to forensics and chat with the prosecutor.  In the
meantime.  Will John ... I assume you have a legal pad.  Or do your
aides do all of the note-taking now?"  Sharon couldn't keep the
contempt out of her voice.  God, pimps, and politicians .. .

"I still take good notes," the congressman said docilely.

"Good you haven't forgotten how.  Between now and four o'clock tomorrow
afternoon, I want you to write down everything you remember about your
affair with Courtney Lee.  All the bars you frequented, every motel,
backseat, or park bench where you might've engaged in a sex act, oral
or otherwise.  Don't leave anything out, because tomorrow we're going
to discuss the night of the murder.  So have your ducks in a row about
what you want to say.  Should we meet here again, or is there some
other place?"

Will John seemed anxious.  ""I'll have to check my calendar.  I may
have meetings, appearances .. ."

"Cancel them."  Sharon made her tone fierce.

"From here on out and until you're either acquitted or headed for
prison, nothing takes precedence over meetings with your lawyers.  Now.
Where can we meet?"

Will John sounded resigned.

"My town house."  He wrote something on a tiny slip of paper, which he
then handed over.

"This is the address."

"Good," Sharon said.  She put her notes in her satchel as Black hefted
his overcoat.  Both lawyers stood.  Sharon said, "Oh.  One more
thing."

Will John looked up at her from his seat on the sofa.

Sharon said, "It's about the size of your sex organ."

Will John grimaced like a man watching a horror movie as Black coughed
into his cupped hand.  The congressman said without much expression,
"Do you have to bring that up?"

"You bet.  At this point it's the main thing going against you.  The
tabloids are making you look as if you're Johnny Wadd and the Stallion
of Seville rolled into one, and the nation is tumbling in the aisles in
laughter.  We have to somehow take the humor out of this situation.  We
don't want the jurors giggling insanely as they pass down a guilty
verdict.  When this goes to trial, how well you're endowed is
inadmissible.

No one can force you to drop your pants so that the jury can have a
peek or anything, but there will be a lot of forensic evidence.  The ME
will testify as to the dead girl's internal stretching and bruising,
and since the jury will have read all that crap in the tabloids, the
prosecution's going to have the size of your penis before them without
their actually broaching the subject.

We have to combat the image."

Will John folded his hands and averted his gaze.

"More specifically," Sharon said, "the problem lies with the nickname
for Dear Old Dad, Bull One.  Rita Carboneau's been having a field day
with that in her column.  She's hinting that you might be Bull Two.  Do
you know Ms.  Carboneau?"

Will John shrugged his shoulders.

"I've seen her at parties."

"Since she's your primary attacker, we need every piece of dirt we can
dig up on the woman.  We've got to discredit her.  At the risk of
making the tabloids even richer than they are, we have to get the
spotlight away from your private parts.  Ridiculous as it may sound,
we're better off with the public believing you're hung like a church
mouse.  I suspect you have sources the same as Rita Carboneau."

Will John smiled for the first time since Sharon and Russ had walked
into the room.

"I may know a few."

"Use them.  Anything, anything at all to make Rita Carboneau out a liar
when she writes about the Benedict men and their penis sizes.  Not fun.
Not funny, either.  Totally necessary.  Unless Mr.  Black has something
else, we're through for now.  Do you, boss?"

"I got nothing more," Black said.

Sharon bent forward and extended her hand across the table.

"Very well.  Until tomorrow then.  Congressman."

Will John stood to shake hands.  There were tiny beads of perspiration
on his forehead.

"Jesus, Sharon.

Can we make the future sessions less intense, with the grilling and
all?"

"I doubt it.  Painful as it might be for you, it's necessary."

Sharon had a thought and suddenly grinned, tried to stop herself but
couldn't resist saying, "Makes you glad that our little thing back in
law school never went further, doesn't it?  A lifetime with me might be
more than you could bear."


Sharon's room at the State Plaza was on the same floor as Russell
Black's, but on the opposite end of the corridor.  She reached her
quarters with a flush in her cheeks after parting company with her boss
and mentor outside the elevators.  Her nose was dripping and her throat
was turning raw.  As she slid the card key through the slot she
pictured her foot, shoe and all, sinking down into a freezing puddle
outside the airport as she'd climbed into Leonard Smith's Mercedes for
the ride downtown.  As she opened the door to her room, she hacked and
cleared her throat.

The room itself was plain but functional, with two queen-sized beds, a
TV hooked up to cable--with Spectravision's
pay-through-the-nose-for-a-movie as an option, which Sharon thought was
a ripoff--a table and four chairs beside the window.  The carpet,
drapes, and bedspread were green, the padded headboard pale yellow. Her
overnight case was on a window seat.  She snapped open the catches,
rummaged around, located a bottle of Dristan, and shook two pills into
her hand as she headed for the bathroom.  She had a thought and paused
in midstride.  The digital bedside clock read 5 p.m. Eastern, which was
six o'clock Dallas time.

She dry-swallowed the tablets, sat on the mattress, picked up the
phone, and called Sheila.  No one answered.

She left a Callnotes message, then set about unpacking her things.

A half hour later she rasped the shower curtain aside, wrapped her
sopping hair in a towel, and stepped out of the tub into a roomful of
steam.  The mirrors were fogged, the chrome fixtures covered with tiny
droplets.  She dried herself by the numbers; neck first, shoulders and
back, and finally her breasts and stomach, her nipples stiffening and
her flesh tingling as the rough cloth massaged her skin.  She stood on
one foot, steadying herself against the side of the tub as she wiped
one leg, then the other.  The Dristan had taken effect;

she felt much better but really drowsy.  As she rubbed down her calf
she heard the phone ringing, faint and far away.  She threw on a
hotel-furnished terrycloth robe, hustled out of the bathroom, picked up
the receiver, and said, "Sheila?"

"Sharon Hays?"

The woman on the phone wasn't Sheila; the tone was huskier, the
enunciation a bit more nasal.  Sharon recognized the voice, and very
nearly spoke the caller's name.  She had a feeling of dread as she
said, "Yes?"

"Hello, Sharon, it's Cas Benedict."  The faint Texas drawl was tempered
by years in D.C. and points east.

The attitude was cold, far from friendly.

Sharon held the phone against her ear and didn't say anything.

After a pause, the voice told her, "Cas Mason.  You don't remember .. .
?"

"Of course," Sharon said.

"I waited on you at Nacho Louie's.  That I could never forget."  She
verbally kept her distance, at the same time saying that she hadn't
forgotten the contempt with which Cas had treated her in the past.

The laugh over the line was humorless, even bitter.

"Have you talked to my husband?"

Sharon thought the question odd as all get-out; not only should Will
John Benedict's wife have known he'd been visiting with his lawyers, if
she hadn't spoken with Will John since that afternoon, how did she know
the name of Sharon's hotel?  Only one answer was possible: Mattie Ruth.
Sharon said, "Yes, earlier.

Around two.  What can I do for you, Cas?"  Her tone was guarded.  She
waited for a response.

"I thought we could visit," Cas Benedict said.

Sharon lifted, then dropped her shoulders.

"Sure.

Go ahead."

"No, I mean in person.  Someplace where we aren't likely to be seen."

"I don't know as I'd feel comfortable with that.  Will John's my
client.  I don't think it would be kosher to meet with his wife without
his knowledge."  An ache began in Sharon's sinuses; she had the
beginnings of a cold, possibly even the flu.  Damn that freezing
puddle, she thought.

"I know some things that you'll want to hear."  For a woman whose
husband's affair with a college girl had become public knowledge, and
whose spouse now faced possible murder charges, Cas Benedict's voice
was oddly calm.

"I'm sure you do," Sharon said, "and certainly we'll want to interview
you.  But our meeting should be in daytime with both of Will John's
lawyers present.  We should have an investigator there as well, in case
what you tell us needs follow-up, and Russ--that's Mr.

Black, Cas, Will John's other attorney--will likely want to tape-record
the session so there'll be no question as to who said what to who."

"I won't speak into a tape recorder."

"There's really no reason not to.  It's for your own protection, so no
one can put words in your mouth in the future."

"That's not the point.  I don't want anyone knowing that the
information I'll give you came from me."

Sharon's eyes widened in curiosity.

"Not even your husband?"

"Especially not my husband."

"Gee, I don't know that I could shield you from my own client.  I think
he'd have a right to know, since he's married to you.  Besides, if
you're helping him .. .

And as to testifying to what you have to say, not even the prosecutor
could force you.  You'd have husband wife privilege."

There was venom in Cas Benedict's voice.

"No, Sharon.  I'll talk to you and you alone, and then hope against
hope that you can find a way to use what I tell you without getting me
publicly involved.  My motive isn't to help my jerk spouse.  But as
much as I despise Will John at the moment, I suppose I have to come
forward.  I can give you undisputable proof that there's no way, no way
in hell that Will John could have murdered that girl.  And as for you,
like it or not, I believe you duty to your client includes listening to
me.  So please quit beating around the bush.  Get a paper and pen and
write these directions down."

Sharon was furious as she changed into a blouse, vest, and jeans, and
fought her emotions down to a slow burn as she went downstairs and had
the bellman hail her a cab.  She stepped out into the frigid weather
before realizing that she hadn't brought a coat, debated, then ducked
on inside the taxi.  Her throat was really sore now, but she didn't
have time to return to her room for something warm.  Pneumonia City,
Sharon thought.  To make things worse she wore webbed sandals with no
socks, but at least she'd put on pantyhose.

Cas Benedict had set the appointment--or issued the summons, actually,
using the same tone of voice in which she'd once told Sharon to bring
her a vodka tonic--for seven o'clock.  The taxi pulled onto the
slush-laden street.  Icy drifts lined the sidewalks on either side. The
sky was pitch-black in early wintertime darkness.  Sharon tersely gave
the driver the address, then sat back, folded her arms, and crossed her
legs.

Her foot jiggled angrily up and down.

Her past connection to the Benedicts aside, Sharon would have had a
problem with this case under any circumstances.  She'd thrown herself
headfirst into defending Daria Cowan because, ditzy as the actress
might be, she was a loyal friend whom Sharon loved dearly.  But this
freaking cast of characters.  God.  Not a single likeable individual in
the bunch, like a novel or movie where there wasn't a player for whom
the audience could root.  Will John was a mountain of jelly and always
had been; his mother was a political animal who'd let her ambition
swallow her self-respect; and Cas Benedict was a spoiled brat without a
single endearing quality.  And Will John's father .. . Please, Lord,
Sharon thought, let me off of this train.

The taxi cruised east on E Street to the White House, then turned to
the north on 17th.  Sharon looked through the iron fence across the
White House lawn, at the huge Christmas tree twinkling in the Chief
Executive's upstairs window.  Silent night, holy night, Sharon thought,
all is calm, and all is total depravity.

As the cab turned the corner and the president's mansion disappeared
behind the bulk of the Executive Office Building, Sharon wondered if
she'd meet anyone worth knowing in the entire city of Washington.
Somehow she doubted that she would.

The bar was called Beggett's Pub, and gave new meaning to the term
"out-of-the-way."  By the time the taxi had gone through a series of
twists and turns somewhere in the vicinity of DuPont Circle and
approached the bar through an alleyway, Sharon was certain that, map
and all, she couldn't have found her way back to the hotel on a bet.
She debated having the driver wait for her then decided against it,
paid the fare and added a tip, and alighted from the car.  On the
twenty-foot walk across the sidewalk to the saloon's walk-up entry, the
cold assaulted her in icy waves of air.

Beggett's Pub was built on two levels, had wooden floors and walls, and
was so dimly lit that Sharon had to squint in order to see.  Behind the
bar and around the seating area hung picture after picture of the same
pudgy black man--likely the bar owner, Sharon thought-posing with
Redskin and Bullet players, golf pros, and two politicians: Clan Quail
and John Glenn.  Mounted on a platform in one corner was a TV showing
an auto race.  There were perhaps fifteen customers, all men, hunched
over drinks around the bar, and two or three couples sitting close
together in booths, drinking beer.

There was a dance floor without dancers and a bandstand without a band.
Old Bee Gees numbers played over the sound system, and a stairway led
up to a balcony which surrounded the room a half level overhead.

Sharon climbed the steps and looked around as the jumpy beat of
"Stayin' Alive" pounded her eardrums.

She spotted Cas Benedict at a table near the rail.  Cas wasn't smiling.
Sharon approached, nodded to Cas without friendliness, and sat down
across from her.

Cas had changed over the years, though the difference was subtle.  Her
face hadn't aged, but the rahrah, tennis-anyone look she'd sported in
college was gone.  In its place was an intelligent sophistication, the
light brown hair done in Conservative-Politician'sWife,
I-Fuck-Only-For-Child-Bearing-Purposes, straightish bangs.  Sharon
supposed that Cas's new image was fine for sitting behind her husband
on a dias, smiling and applauding on cue, but Sharon thought it a shame
for anyone to hide the show-stopping figure that Cas had displayed as a
coed.  As much as she'd despised Cas after their confrontation in Nacho
Louie's, Sharon had always thought the campus queen to be drop-dead
gorgeous.  She was still beautiful, but the ice-queen look detracted.
Even Cas's casual attire appeared overly formal for the barroom
setting; she wore a white starched blouse with a navy cardigan
sweater.

Cas opened her mouth to speak.  Sharon waited for her to say something
hateful.  In the old days Cas had been an expert at the art of the
put-down, and Sharon doubted if the woman had changed in that regard.

"I owe you an apology," Cas said.

"If nothing else, I'm glad I got to see you again so that I could tell
you in person."

The statement took most of the wind out of Sharon's sails.  Her
forehead tightened in surprise.

"Ten years ago I got word that you'd been sneaking around with my
fiance behind my back," Cas said.

"The one time we talked, I suppose I gave the impression that I had it
in for you."

Now that, Sharon thought, is the understatement of the freaking month.
She said softly, "Apology accepted.

You don't have to--" "The thing was," Cas interrupted, "I thought it
was you and only you.  I've now figured out, and Will John has
confessed to me, that our entire relationship, all thirteen years of
it, has just been a series of one trollop after another after another.
I know that it wasn't you doing the pro positioning it was him.  I'm
truly sorry."

The backhanded apology hit Sharon like a slap in the face.  So now she
was no longer a worthy rival, but just another trollop whose hide hung
from Will John Benedict's belt.  The smirkiness at the corners of Cas's
mouth said that the undisguised insult had been intentional.  Sharon
told herself to shut out everything except her purpose in being here,
but was unable to do so.  She sat stiffly erect as the waitress
approached, then ordered a Tanqueray and tonic and said to Cas Benedict
as the waitress sashayed downstairs, "I'm going to say this one time,
Cas.  It's what I wanted to say to you a decade ago but was in no
position to.

Are you listening?"

Cas haughtily inclined her neck, her head set at a
looking-downfromonhigh-angle.

"First of all," Sharon said, "that long-ago night in the restaurant you
greeted me by saying, "So you're the little waitress."  I've never
forgotten that.  Well, you identified me correctly, though I didn't fit
in the picture the way you thought.  I plead guilty to having to work
my way through school, and begrudge not one iota the fact that you
didn't have to lift a finger to pay your tuition.

That's life and those are the breaks.  But read my lips.

Will John and I never had anything going, through no fault of his.  We
went out a few times and that was all, and if I'd known he was pinned
to you, dropped to you, or had your name tattooed on his ass or
whatever, I never would have dated him.  This will come as a shock, but
until that night you reamed me out while I was working, I'd never heard
of you.  Call me uninformed around campus, but that's the truth."

Cas watched with what amounted to a disbelieving pout.  Sharon paused
to catch her breath, then plunged ahead.

"And as for his being a habitual skirt-chaser, that's ridiculous.  Not
that being a faithful husband is a knock, it's a plus.  You say he's
owned up to his screwing around, but I'm betting he confessed no such
thing to you.  Don't try playing the cuckold here, Cas, it won't help
the case and it won't improve your image.  It's good advice.  We don't
like each other, but take it anyway.

"Let's hope," Sharon said, "that in fast-forwarding ten years we've
grown up a bit, because some silly cat fight over what happened when we
were both too dumb to know any better can be devastating here.  I
didn't ask for this case, but now that I've got it I'm going to give it
bloody hell.  Law school, college, the New Year's Eve we did the town,
the day we tore the goalposts down, all that nonsense is history, along
with some things that went on with the Benedicts that are too terrible
for you to sit in your tower and imagine."

Cas's expression softened.  Her lips parted.

Sharon said, "Now.  You told me on the phone you had information.  I'm
listening.  To the information and only the information.  To nothing
about what you think of me, past or present.  Is that clear?"

Cas's look was a puzzling mix of sadness and worry.

"Sharon, I ..."

The waitress appeared on Sharon's left, set down a glass of clear
bubbly liquid with ice floating on its surface and a lime wedge impaled
on the tumbler's edge, marked something down on a pad, and retreated
downstairs.  Sharon picked up the drink and had a healthy glug.

"Stayin' Alive" was finished, and the Bee Gees now sizzled through
"Saturday Night Fever" over the sound system.  Sharon leaned closer to
the table.

"This information you're going to give me," she said.

"Before you say a word, there's something you should know."

Cas had a look of anxiety.

"The things too terrible for me to imagine.  Are they--?"

"Nothing about the past.  Not one word, I won't listen.  But I'm
assuming that any information you have about the Lee girl's murder will
be in your husband's favor.  Remember how you as a source are going to
be viewed, since you're married to the suspect, and remember also that
the police know that on the night of the killing you were in Texas.  So
whatever you know, you must know it secondhand, and without some sort
of collaboration your information would be hearsay.  In other words, in
order for us to use you, we'd need backup for what you say."  Sharon
dug in her purse and retracted a pad and pen.

"So now you may talk.  I'll interrupt occasionally with a few
questions, but for the most part the floor is yours."

Cas's expression changed again.  More anxiously, she said, "I do have
backup.  The problem is, it's from a person I hired."

Sharon's eyebrow arched in interest.

"Oh?  A private's detective?"

"How would you know that?"

Sharon lifted, then dropped her shoulders.

"Your husband was running around.  You said you had information from
someone you hired.  Two plus two."

"I can't say I really suspected anything."  The ice in Cas's drink was
melting.  She had a sip and made a face.

"Then it isn't a private detective?"

Cas lowered her gaze as if in shame.

"Well it is, but .. ."

Sharon sighed, and laid her pen aside.

"I'm going to have to tell you the same as I had to tell your husband.
Whatever you do, don't try to lie and don't try to make things sound
innocent when they aren't.

If you hired a private investigator you had suspicions.

No one will believe otherwise."

Cas looked up with intensity.

"I was trying to dispel the rumors."

"Which you heard from who?"  Sharon asked.

"The word was around.  It tends to get around."

"Mmm-hmm."  Sharon readied her ballpoint.

"What's the investigator's name?"

"He's well-known in town."  Cas looked away.

"Oh?  I've been getting the impression around here that to be
well-known in Washington is to be famous throughout the world."

Cas was hesitant.

"He's the best at what he does."

"I don't care if he changes in a phone booth and flies off to Krypton.
What's his name?"

Cas fished in a small black purse and popped a printed business card
onto the table.  She wrapped both hands around her glass, and dully
watched the drink as she said, "That's him, there."

Sharon picked up the card.  Nothing fancy, just plain black lettering
to introduce "Mark C. Potter.  Discreet inquiries."  There was an
office address and a phone number.  No logo, nothing to toot the
detective's horn.

Cas said, "He handles only special clients."

"Come on," Sharon said.

"A lot of private investigators say that.  The special client is the
one with the special bank account."

"This guy is different.  I doubt he could exist in another city."

Sharon laid her pen aside.  She was getting it.  Mark C. Potter
specialized in following politicos around,

then reporting to their spouses for a fee resembling the national debt.
The wife in turn would file the information away, unable to confront
her husband without creating a nasty public scandal.  Sharon dispelled
a surge of sympathy.  Women who, strictly for political purposes, stood
by their husbands in the face of publicly acknowledged screwing around
turned Sharon's stomach.  She said, "What good does it do you to hire
this guy?"

Cas looked incredulous.

"A wife has to know."

"If you're not going to do anything about it, why?"

Cas looked away, and sniffed a little sniff.

"I'm assuming," Sharon said, "that this detective has information that
Will John was somewhere else when the murder happened."

"I'd rather you hear it from him, and then determine a way to use what
he has without getting him involved.  Or me."

Sharon took some of the edge off her tone, but not all.

"Cas, it occurs to me that you'll look better, publicly, if the media
knows you weren't running around with your head in the sand.  That at
least you were hip enough to suspect that something was going on.

Look, you have no children to shield from this.  Why not preserve your
own self-respect?"

"It's not necessarily myself," Cas said with a touch of drama, "that
I'm protecting."

Sharon was speechless for an instant.  She pictured Mattie Ruth
Benedict, and the meeting with the lawyers and the behind-the-scenes
operator, Wallace Burns.

She said, "Oh.  The Democratic Party."

Cas's mouth twisted as she lowered her gaze.

Sharon tried to regain her composure.  Jesus double Christ.  Mattie
Ruth, and now Cas, were more concerned with keeping Will John in office
than defending him from murder charges.  For it to become public
knowledge that the congressman's wife hadn't trusted him would be
politically damaging.  Sharon resisted the urge to launch into a
tirade, took a deep breath, and said, "I can only promise you, if
possible we'll keep the guy out of it, and it's a big 'if."  I doubt we
can."

"Sharon, this is so important .. ."

Sharon slowly shook her head in wonder.

"Oh, Jesus.  Important to who?  The Party?  You won't discuss your
knowledge of an alibi with your own husband, but you'll clue in Boots
York and all those political lawyers."

Cas raised her chin haughtily.

"You just don't know this town.  Discretion is .. ."

"I may not know this town," Sharon said, "but I do know criminal
courtrooms.  Very well, and it works this way.  In order for evidence
to be admissible it has to be presented in a certain manner.  If your
detective witnessed Will John someplace else at the time of the murder,
only the detective can testify to that.  Otherwise it would be hearsay.
And if we tried to say the detective just accidentally happened to be
there as a witness, the prosecution would make fools of us."

Sharon glanced once again at the business card.

"I'll talk to Mr.  Mark C. Potter.  Likely I'll have to put him on the
stand."

"It could be devastating to my husband's career."

"Not near as devastating as the alternative."  Sharon put the business
card away.  She simply had to get away from this woman before she said
something she'd later regret.

"Look, Cas, we're both tired.  We'll think more clearly with some
sleep, or at least I know I will."  She smiled, though it took some
effort.

"It's your party and I'm the guest here.  But frankly, I don't feel
very well.  I could call a cab.  But I'd be ever so grateful if you'd
offer me a ride."

Cas drove the standard Politician's Wifemobile, a pale blue four-door
Chrysler with darkly tinted windows, luxurious but not flashy enough to
make the constituents wonder what the congressman did with his campaign
funds.  The seats were velour, and tugged on Sharon's jeans as she
fastened her seatbelt.  Cas got in behind the wheel, drove out of the
alley and onto streets, which were sliok with snow.  At various
intersections along the way the tires spun and the rear end fishtailed.
Sharon gave the name of her hotel.  Cas sniffed disdainfully and
pointed the Chrysler's nose to the south.  The automatic climate
control kept the car's interior pleasantly warm.

The women traveled in uncomfortable silence, and Sharon wished that
she'd taken a taxi.  Relief flooded over her as Cas finally pulled
under the awning at the State Plaza.  As the doorman tugged on the
handle to let her out, she grabbed up her satchel and purse.

"Appreciate the lift.  I'll call you as soon as I contact this
detective."  And left it at that, alighting to the curb and stepping
toward the entry as the doorman banged the door closed.

She was a couple of strides from the revolving door when Cas called out
behind her, "Sharon?  Sharon, wait."

Sharon turned.  The Chrysler's electric window slid all the way down as
Cas watched her anxiously.  Sharon retreated and stood on the curb,
sneezing.

Cas seemed hesitant.  She said, so softly that Sharon had to bend
closer to hear, "You said earlier that..  ."

Sharon moved her satchel in front of her thighs.

"Yes?"

"Well, you talked about things with the Benedicts too terrible for me
to imagine."

Sharon's jaws clenched.

"I told you before.  Nothing about the past will I so much as--" "Did
those things have anything to do with Paul?"

Sharon's teeth clicked together.

"Paul Benedict.  Will John's .. . father," Cas said.

Sharon said icily, "I know who you mean.  Why do you ask?"

Cas measured her.  She finally said, "No reason.  No reason, really."
An electric motor hummed and the window began to rise.

Sharon said urgently, "Cas, dammit, if you know something ..."

The window halted halfway up.

"Nothing to do with right now," Cas said.

"Nothing to do with today, and it's you who insists that we not bring
up the past.  Just forget I mentioned it, all right?"  The Chrysler
leaped forward, its tires whirling in slush as Cas left the hotel, the
dark window closing as Sharon stood alone in the cold.

he next morning Sharon went to the offices of the United States
Attorney for the District of Columbia, wasted an hour with this
assistant and that, and finally learned that the prosecutor heading up
the Benedict investigation was named Cedric Hyde.  Hyde's office was at
500 Indiana Avenue, a five-block walk from the main USDA headquarters.
Sharon wondered why Cedric Hyde was so far removed from the hub of
things.

She supposed that USDA's dealing with everyday rapes, murders, and
robberies in the city of Washington were a step down the food chain
from those who chased tax dodgers and politicians, the really dangerous
criminals.  Sharon went out into forty-degree weather and trudged
along.  Melting snow dripped and puddled on the sidewalks.  Her sinuses
throbbed and her face was hot.  Likely she was running a temperature.
She'd been mainlining Dristan and aspirin tablets to no avail;

she felt worse and worse as time went by.

The sooty old building at 500 Indiana was laid out identically to the
justice center in every city Sharon had ever visited, with several

floors of cramped court y room space connected to a jail by catwalks.
Local D.C.

prosecutors off iced on the upper levels in rooms the size of broom
closets.  Sharon's leg brushed the front of Cedric Hyde's gunmetal gray
steel desk as she talked to him.  Hyde's assistant, a sharp young
Oriental named Sally Pong, sat in such close proximity that Sharon
could feel breath on her face.  Pong smelled pleasantly of wintergreen.
She listened in silence as Hyde took the floor.  Two thick files sat at
Hyde's elbow, more evidence that, in Will John Benedict's case, the
prosecution wasn't screwing around.

"Our word is, Russell Black will be representing Mr.  Benedict.  Will
we be meeting him anytime soon?"

Hyde was a stoop-shouldered fortyish man with a dark brush mustache.
His black hair receded from his forehead, and he was graying at the
temples.  His question was an intentional put-down, Sharon realized,
letting her know that in Cedric Hyde's book she was a second stringer
Most lifelong prosecutors had chips on their shoulders the size of
Sequoia logs; those in it for the money were long gone to private
practice by the time they reached Hyde's age.  And Hyde, looked down on
by his cohorts over at main headquarters, would be more resentful than
most AUSDAs.  He'd be a whiz on the books, a bore in the courtroom.
Though Sally Pong had little to say, her dark intelligent eyes shifted
constantly as she listened.  During introductions she'd exhibited a
well-modulated voice and vibrant posture, and Sharon suspected that
when and if the case came to trial.  Pong would do most of the talking
for the People.

"Russ flew in with me yesterday," Sharon said.

"Today he's in meetings, but he'll be around."  Which was so, though
Black's morning "meeting" was a breakfast with Mattie Ruth Benedict and
he'd made an afternoon appointment with a barber.  In truth, Russell
Black couldn't stand going over details with opposing lawyers and
attended as few preliminary conferences as possible.  Sharon wasn't
crazy about conversing with the USDA, either, but the further she could
stay from Mattie Ruth--and any possible confrontation with the
senator's loving husband--so much the better.  She offered Cedric Hyde
what she hoped was a disarming smile as she said, "The purpose of my
visit is, we all know what's been on television and in the newspapers.
Our client is very concerned to know what's going on."

Hyde exchanged a look with Pong, who crossed one long leg over the
other and smoothed her skirt.  Hyde said, fiddling with a paperweight,
"We'd like to know the same thing.  An interview with your client would
be helpful."

Which was a typical prosecutor's request; whether he had zilch to go on
or evidence up to here, Hyde would like to see how often he could trip
Will John during an interview and get the congressman to change his
story.  He'd have an investigator present, of course, someone who could
testify as to what the suspect had to say, putting spin on the
interview to suit the prosecution's purposes.  Grilling sessions with
suspects caused AUSDAs to lick their chops.

"That's a definite possibility," Sharon said, "now that Congressman
Benedict has retained counsel."  She was putting Hyde on; the police
could interview Will John as soon as cows sprouted wings in the
barnyard and began laying eggs.  An old hand such as Hyde would know
that a question-and-answer session with the congressman would never be,
of course, but Sharon decided to dangle some bait in the event she
could use the interview as a bargaining tool.

Hyde was obviously a serious man, and didn't crack a smile as he said,
"Oh?  The appearance of a lawyer eliminates interference from the
Democratic Party, eh?"

Sharon forced a look of understanding.

"Nothing's going to completely do away with that, Mr.  Hyde.  You know
it and I know it.  If it's any consolation, we don't like that part of
it any more than you do."

"Murder is murder," Hyde said, "regardless if the perp is some guy in
the streets or the King of England."

Sharon decided to end the charade.  Hyde's contention that this was
just another case was as ridiculous as Sharon's own inference that Will
John might be available for questioning.

"What I'm here for," Sharon said.  "is to determine how, if there's any
way, we can help each other."

"Of course."  Hyde glanced at Pong, who produced a legal pad and
prepared to take notes.

"You'll be dealing mainly with Sally on this.  She's put together the
case file."  He touched his fingertips together in a dealing
attitude.

"I'm assuming that we can have blood and saliva samples."

Sharon paused.  The prosecutor's request was SOP, and Will John's DNA
was available through court order should Sharon refuse.  The only
question was, how much was Hyde willing to give in order to skirt the
formality of going to a judge?  She tried the stan dard defense
lawyer's hedge.

"I couldn't commit without conferring with my client."  And followed
with a look as if she weren't accustomed to telling her clients what to
do.

Hyde exchanged a glance with Pong.

"We'd expect that," he said, "and would look for your answer in the
morning."

Sharon's surprise was real.

"That soon?  My, you're really on the front burner with this one, Mr.
Hyde."

"We're not immune to the publicity any more than you are.  With the
national coverage we have to move one way or the other, and very
quickly.  If your client's DNA doesn't match, well hey.  Been nice
doing business with you, you know?"

The conversation was growing less friendly by the minute.  Hyde had
originally given her the impression that she was interrupting his day,
an inference that she had quickly discounted.  With possible murder
charges against a congressman on his plate, Hyde would have little else
to do.  So why the deep freeze?  Sharon thought.  She said, "It's been
my experience that sharing makes things go more quickly and smoothly.
Look, if you have a photo of Will John Benedict killing the girl, why
not show it to me?  If you have a slam dunk, sir, why drag it out?"

"It's not our policy to drag things out.  We leave that up to defense
counsel."

"Which I confess we do occasionally," Sharon said.

"But only when we have a clearly guilty client and are stalling the
inevitable.  So if you have physical evidence, why not give it to me?
We'll have it eventually anyway."  She couldn't believe this was
happening; not even Mili^n Breyer back in Dallas was this bullheaded
when it came to keeping the defense informed.

"Unless, of course, you have no evidence.  If what's in the newspapers
is all wrong ..."

"I wouldn't count on that," Hyde said, smirking conspiratorially at his
assistant.

Sally Pong smiled fleetingly, then looked out the window.  Her view was
an open area over an alley strewn with garbage.  As a youngster on the
staff.  Pong would be even more hell-bent-for-leather to get a
conviction than her superior, but Sharon thought she detected a hair of
tension between the two.  When she'd been an assistant prosecutor under
Milton Breyer, Sharon had despised the man and had taken every
opportunity to show him up in the courtroom.  She wondered briefly if
she could turn conflict between the prosecutors around to her
advantage.

"I don't suppose you care if I visit with the medical examiner," Sharon
said.

"I have no control over the ME's office.  Who they want to talk with is
up to them.  I'll even give you a reference.  Ask for Chris Monet."
Hyde's look said that if this Monet person gave Sharon the time of day,
he'd be shocked down to his toes.

Sharon threw her coat over her arm and started to rise.

"Thanks for your cooperation, Mr.  Hyde.  Or lack of it."

"Don't mention it."  Hyde folded his arms and pursed his lips.

"Sally, escort Miss Hays out, will you?"


Sharon caught the slightest stiffening in Pong's bearing as if she
didn't like being treated as an usher.

Sharon stood.

"I'd ask for a courtesy," she said.

Hyde glared at her.

"Which is?"

Sharon responded with a tiny shrug.

"The usual.  If you plan an indictment, we'd like to be notified so
that our client could surrender.  We wouldn't want him arrested on the
House floor."

Hyde examined bitten nails.

"We couldn't guarantee that."

Sharon hid her surprise.  Not that she'd expected any more; public
arrests were one of the government's chief publicity tools.  At least
Hyde was being up front about it; most prosecutors would lie, promising
her the opportunity to surrender her client and then arresting the poor
schnook anyway.  She said, "Well thanks for your time."

"Don't mention it."^ Hyde pointed to Sharon and spoke to Pong.

"Sally, stick close to this woman.  We wouldn't want her wandering
around without you nearby to answer any questions she might have."

Sally Pong was difficult to categorize.  She was surprisingly tall, an
inch or so over Sharon's own five nine and moved with an athlete's
grace like a dancer or gymnast.  Her high Oriental cheekbones were
prominent beneath an exterior of soft skin with a complexion to die
for.  Her dark suit had padded shoulders, accentuating the long legs
and trim waistline below.

Her voice was strong though well-modulated, her accent eastern chic
mixed with a helping of gee-whiz-Ican'tbelieveI'ma-lawyer enthusiasm.
Pong was older than she looked; Sharon had assumed she was just out of
law school, and barely hid her surprise on learning, on the elevator
ride to the parking garage, that Sally Pong had a thirteen-year-old
son.  In the next breath Pong told her that her boyfriend was a doctor,
which meant that she was either divorced or an unwed mother.  Sharon
acknowledged the possibility that she and Sally Pong could be kindred
souls.

And Pong was ambitious.  As she steered the four door government sedan
out of the parking garage, she said conversationally, "As one who's
experienced it, what's your estimate of the time to spend prosecuting
before entering private practice?"

Sharon sat at ease in the passenger seat, her seatbelt loosely about
her, her hands folded in her lap.  Her satchel lay in the back.

"That's a tough question to answer."

Pong was stopped at the end of the drive, watching for a break in the
traffic.

"I know.  If you leave too early in your career, clients will think
you're inexperienced.

Hang around too long and firms will shy away from hiring you because
they think you're too prosecutorially oriented and won't be able to
adjust.  And let's face it, doubly tough if you're a woman.  Plus my
ethnicity works against me, I'd have it easier in criminal law if I
were black.  Not too many Chinese boys in the D.C. jail, you know? It's
another strike against me that I'm third generation and can't speak a
word of the lingo."  She floored the accelerator, centrifugal force
pressing Sharon against the door as Pong whipped into the center lane
in front of a panel truck.  The truck driver slammed on his brakes and
angrily honked his horn.  Sally Pong smiled as if pleased with
herself.

"But ballpark anyway.  Miss Hays, what's your estimate?"

Sharon's eyes widened slightly as Pong zipped in and out of traffic,
changing lanes like a race-car driver.

"You can't go by my career," Sharon said.

"I wasn't prepared to leave the Dallas County prosecutor when I did. It
just .. . happened."  She was careful with her words; bringing up the
sexual harrassment bit with Milton Breyer would be a waste of breath
and could harm her in the long run.

"Things just happening have a lot to do with it," Pong said.

"Look at you.  The Daria Cowan thing just happened as well, but you
took full advantage."

Sharon felt a surge of irritation.

"I didn't defend Daria out of any desire to go public."

"Maybe not.  But the case did go public and you shined in the
spotlight.  What wouldn't I give."

"I don't think you can plan for breaks," Sharon said.

"If they come, they come."

"Right.  Like this one."  Pong hit the brakes, whipped into a parallel
space behind a minivan, and killed the engine.

"It's good you have a couple of high-profile acquittals on your record,
because this is a case you won't win."

Pong was baiting.  Sharon looked out the window and didn't answer.
Confrontation was a total waste of time.  Sally Pong would be a tough
opponent in the courtroom.  She was a single mother with a kid to
support, and that alone could make her dangerous.

Sharon leaned forward, peering across the street, around the
prosecutor.

"Are we here?"

"Yes.  The three-story building over there."  Pong shoved her door
partway open, then paused.

"You won't win.  Miss Hays."  She started to step onto the pavement,
watching the cars and trucks whiz past.

"Follow me.  And watch yourself crossing.  Assholes in this town will
run over you without batting an eye."

So much for Cedric Hyde's statement that he had no control over the
ME's office.  Three people waited amid the smell of alcohol and
formaldehyde: a slim attractive black woman wearing a coroner's jacket
and two Washington police detectives--a tiny Caucasian woman and an
enormous black man.  The assistant medical examiner was named Chris
Monet, and the cops were Ginny Toledo and Isaac Brown.  As Sally Pong
did the introductions--with a gang of coroners performing autopsies
visible through a window in the background--Sharon considered the odds
of the detectives' presence being a coincidence.  No way, she thought;
the instant that Sally Pong had left the USDA's quarters with Sharon in
tow, Cedric Hyde had been on the phone.  Sharon gave handshakes to one
and all, and then followed Monet into a small anteroom with chairs set
up around a conference table.  As the massive cop sat down, muscles
rippled beneath his white dress shirt.  He wore a shoulder rig with no
pistol.

"As you probably already know," Sharon began, "I represent Congressman
Will John Benedict.  The congressman is very concerned over the rumors
in the newspapers.  I'm here to do whatever is necessary to dispel
these rumors."  Had she been in Texas, Sharon would have referred to
Will John merely as "my client," but her short time in D.C. had taught
her that reminders of Will John's political status wouldn't be a bad
idea.  In normal surroundings a suspect's fame added coals to
prosecutorial fires.  In the Mecca of politics, a suspect being a
congressman would make the police dot their is and cross their f's.

TheAME and the cops looked at each other.  Detective Ginny Toledo spoke
up with authority.

"We'd like to end the speculation as well."

Sharon thought that pre indictment meetings between defense lawyers and
members of investigative teams should be called the Battle of the
Bullshitters.

The police didn't really want to end the speculation and Sharon didn't
really think she could do anything to save Will John from facing
charges.  To make the situation even more ludicrous, each side
understood perfectly that the other was totally full of it.  Sharon
said, "How can we expedite the matter, then?"

"Simple, really," Toledo said.

"Chris Monet here has recovered certain evidence from the victim.
Carpet fibers on the clothing, some hair samples, head and pubic, plus
some skin under the victim's fingernails.  If your client's DNA is a
match, it's a slam dunk for us.

If it doesn't, we terminate the investigation of your client and begin
to pursue other avenues."

Sharon sighed inwardly in exasperation.  She'd already heard this line
of reasoning over at the prosecutor's office and could have saved
herself a trip.  She said, "I think the sparring should end now, ladies
and gentlemen.  If the congressman's DNA matches, it only proves that
he was with her.  Not that he killed her.

Likewise, even if it doesn't match, if you're bound and determined to
build a case against Will John Benedict, the lack of physical evidence
won't stop you.  You'll merely formulate a different plan of attack.
You know it and I know it, so could we please cut the verbal jousting
and determine whether we can help one another?"

Toledo exchanged a guarded look with Sally Pong.

The female cop was attractive and articulate, more like an English
teacher than a homicide investigator.

She said, "A non match on your client's DNA would certainly give us
pause, Miss Hays.  We can get samples from Congressman Benedict with or
without your assistance, so what are we discussing here?"

Sharon kept her cool.

"We are discussing saving you time and effort, not to mention giving
our side food for thought as to plea bargaining.  You'll have Ms.

Monet as an expert witness, to testify as to the physical evidence, and
we can send our expert in to refute what she has to say.  That's all a
given.  But if you have evidence other than physical, witnesses and
whatnot, your sharing with me now can save immeasurable time.  If your
evidence is strong enough, hey.  We know when we're whipped, and then
we'll want to talk mitigating our losses.  So if you'll clue me in I'll
have a talk with these witnesses.  And as you know, this is something
I'll be entitled to after indictment, just as you're entitled to a
court order for the congressman's DNA.  But why go through all that?"

Toledo said nothing.  Pong coughed into her cupped hand.  Christine
Monet fiddled with the lapel of her white coat.  Detective Brown flexed
his neck muscles.

Finally Pong leaned forward and gave Sharon a sideways-angled look.

"Any information given to you would be the U.S. Attorney's decision, of
course.  We won't rule it out.  But specifically, what is it that you
would like to know?"

Sharon had come prepared.  She hauled her laundry list from her
satchel, written out on a yellow legal pad.

"A list of those you've interviewed, for starters.  If any of these
witnesses have brought forth anything that could lead to an alternate
theory of the crime, we'd like to have that.  It's something we can
develop on our own, but we're talking saving time here.  And as for the
victim, she was a healthy young woman.  Bloom on the rose and all that,
so we assume that an affair with a married congressman wasn't the sum
total of the male companionship she enjoyed.  If she had other
gentleman friends we'd like to know about them."

Sharon really didn't expect any answers, at least not here and now, but
she was looking for reactions.

When she'd asked about other men in Courtney Lee's life, both Toledo
and Detective Brown had slightly averted their gazes.  She made a
mental note that Courtney's boyfriends had just become Number One on
the defense's priority list.

Sally Pong remained deadpan.  She seemed in thought.

Finally she looked directly at Sharon and said, "I don't think we'll be
doing any business in those areas with you.  Miss Hays.  I could lead
you on, but I'll show you the courtesy of not doing that.  Any physical
evidence we have, of course, is yours for the asking."

"Which is?"  Sharon asked.

Pong looked at Chris Monet.  The assistant medical examiner took the
floor with no further prompting.

"This murder sort of redefines vicious," Monet said.

"Two gigantic bullet penetrations, nine-millimeter or something
similar, one to the temple and the other to the cheek.  Both close
range, the second with the barrel flush against her head according to
the powder burns .  Roll her over and it gets even worse.  The back of
her skull was caved in flush with her ear.  She may or may not have
been alive when she was shot.  The head fracture penetrated the brain
cavity and she would have died from it eventually, and since she was
killed elsewhere and dragged into the woods, we don't have enough blood
flow evidence to determine whether her heart was pumping when the
bullets passed through her head.  No shell frags or jackets, of
course.

There are bruise marks at the base of the neck and on the right temple,
indicating that whoever did it took several whacks with a bludgeon of
some kind.  It wasn't a pipe, because the particles clinging to the
head wound are sawdust.  I'm guessing your standard Louisville
Slugger."  Monet ignored the no-smoking sign in the corridor, lit a
filtered Camel, and wafted a plume toward the ceiling.

Detective Brown sat at ease, his ankle resting on his knee and his shin
propped against the ME's desk.

Detective Toledo was in a straight-backed posture in a second visitor's
chair.  Sharon leaned forward.

"Have you discounted any possibility that she was raped?"

Monet's lips twitched in amusement as she considered her answer.  She
had a broad flat nose and piercing, intelligent eyes.  She waved her
cigarette around.

"You are dealing with a first-class fucking here.  A rape, I doubt
it."

Toledo tilted her head in interest.  Brown rested his cheek on his
lightly clenched fist.  Pong seemed bored.

Sharon played with the catch on her satchel.

"There was both vaginal and rectal penetration," Monet said, "and a
slight tearing of both the rectal and vaginal walls, but none of the
external or internal abuse we generally associate with rape.  Lab
analysis ..."

Monet puffed and inhaled.

"Lab analysis shows that the slick substance inside and around the
vagina and rectum is a prophylactic lubricant.  Often rapists don't
ejaculate, but the lack of semen present is consistent with the theory
that whoever fucked this girl wore a condom.  Consensual sex would be
my guess, though there was nothing gentle about it.  How many rapos
take the time to put on a rubber?  I mean, come on."

Smoke drifted from between her lips and out of her nostrils.

"Unusual," Sharon' said.

"But not unheard of.  I assume you took scrapings from under her
fingernails."

Monet nodded agreement.

"And found both skin and blood, which is why we're asking for your
client's DNA.  The clawing could be defensive.  But also could be from
scratching the be jesus out of someone's back while she squeezed him
with her legs.  I'd opt for the latter."  She paused and smoked some
more.  She stubbed her cigarette out in an ashtray.

"This is more than fantasizing on my part.  Wet trees and foliage make
for trace evidence out the wa zoo enough fibers to keep the lab busy
through Labor Day.  Some appear to be expensive carpet fibers.  A white
smear found on her thigh succumbed to the taste test rather quickly."

She sucked her index finger to demonstrate.

"It's Redi-Whip, and the faint red stain on its surface turns out to be
maraschino cherry juice.  Shortly before her death the young lady was
someone's vibrant sundae.

I doubt it was involuntary."

Monet paused, obviously pleased with herself.  She went on, "There was
powder residue, inside of and on the exterior of both orifices, front
and rear.  I won't keep you in suspense.  It's cocaine.  Same residue
in both nostrils.  Our girl died high, which blood analysis confirms. A
little coke in the right places makes for the ultimate sexual
experience."  She smiled appreciatively at Detective Brown.

"I've heard," Monet said.

Sharon leaned back, took out a ballpoint and chewed on its end.

"But the interior damage, the tears in the walls of the vagina and
rectum, those don't say the guy forced himself on her?"

Monet seemed thoughtful.

"Possible.  Not likely.

Look, there were no pressure bruises, nothing to indicate her legs were
forced apart, no marks on the cheeks of her ass .. ."  She gave Brown
another once over winked, and grinned at him.

"Bet me.  Someone fucked half of her brains out, then, as if that
didn't make her dumb enough, someone beat the rest of them out with a
baseball bat.  Got no idea if the fucker and the beater are one and the
same person, but I'd guess that they aren't.  After the performance
this girl put on, no way she could have made anybody that mad."

Sharon thought the exchanges between the ME and the muscular cop were a
bit less than cute.  She sighed in exasperation.

"I'm assuming the physical evidence, we can go over it?  We'll be
entitled eventually no matter what."

Monet smirked.

"You're welcome to go over what I have.  The whipped cream was pretty
well melted, but we've preserved what we could in the icebox."

Pong butted in.

"That's my bailiwick, Chris.  Miss Hays can see the evidence when and
if the court so orders."

Through her anger, Sharon was getting the picture.

Cedric Hyde, Sally Pong, and now the police, all were refusing to
provide information that the defense normally received without a
struggle for the very reasons Sharon had outlined; after all, why go
through the time and expense of indictment and trial when any defense
lawyer with half a brain, when confronted with overwhelming evidence,
would convince their client to cop out in return for a deal?  There's
only one possible reason for all the stonewalling, Sharon thought,
publicity.  Someone higher up wanted the case to go to trial, and
therefore had dictated that cooperation with Will John Benedict's
lawyers was to be nil.  So who gave the order?  Sharon thought.  Cedric
Hyde?

No way, he wasn't the type.  The U.S. Attorney himself?

Possibly, but somehow Sharon doubted it.  She said, keeping as much
testiness out of her tone as possible, "What I'm hearing is, I'll learn
nothing from you that hasn't already been in the newspapers.  Am I
right?"

There were five seconds of silence.  Sally Pong said, "I think we can
say you're perceptive.  Miss Hays."

Sharon glared around at the group.

"So I am.  Good day to you all."  She hefted her shoulder bag and
started to rise.  She held out a hand in Pong's direction, palm up.

"I'll take what you're planning to give me,

which will be nothing earth-shattering, of course, but thanks anyway. I
suppose our future contact will be in the courtroom, folks.  If I have
any more questions, I'll read the Washington Post.  Early edition,
right?

Anything later than that will be yesterday's news."


Sharon accepted what Sally Pong had to offer--a thick fiberboard
accordion-style envelope with a tie string--left in a huff, went
downstairs, and called a cab.  Until the courtroom battle began in
earnest she'd had her last contact with Cedric Hyde, Sally Pong, the
police, or anyone else connected to the prosecution unless the other
side initiated a meeting.  She'd made the effort and her conscience was
clear.  As far as she was concerned, the battle lines were drawn.

On the ride to the hotel, Sharon leaned back in the taxi's overheated
passenger compartment and went through the contents of the envelope.
There were the usual medical examiner's forms, and Sharon's lips moved
as she silently read over the autopsy report.

Evidence found at the scene indicated that someone had murdered
Courtney at an unknown location and then dumped her body in Rock Creek
Park, a situation that created problems in determining cause or time of
death.  Courtney had suffered massive injuries--blunt trauma to the
head along with two gunshot wounds to the face--all of which would have
been fatal.  With no pooling of blood around the body there was no way
to know if her heart was beating at the time someone shot her.
Likewise, since the frigid temperature in the park would drastically
alter the body's cooling time, the murder could have happened just
about anytime or anywhere.  If Courtney had died, say, in a heated room
where it was seventy-five degrees, and then her killer had moved her to
the park, the temperature change could create a window of opportunity
for the murderer of as much as four or five hours.  Her digestive trace
was empty, indicating that she hadn't eaten in about twelve hours
before her death.  The inability to pinpoint the time of the murder
created problems; Will John had a great deal more of his time to
account for than Sharon had expected.  She laid the autopsy aside and
picked up an envelope of photos.  She softly closed her eyes, mentally
steeling herself.

Crime scene and autopsy pictures were always tough to deal with, but
deal with them she must.  The prosecution would thrust the grisly
photos in the jury's face over and over during trial, and the defense
must carefully plan its demeanor on confronting such gore in the
courtroom.  The defendant's lawyers should show outrage at the
treatment of the victim, but at the same time be incredulous that
anyone could think their client capable of such mayhem.  Russ Black's
strategy was to look away when autopsy pictures paraded in front of the
jury box, while Sharon's idea of proper demeanor was to look at the
pictures head on, her gaze full of pity and outrage.  She had to get
used to looking at these images of Courtney Lee as she appeared in
death.  She took a shallow breath, slid the first of the pictures from
the envelope, and looked it over.

The first picture was Courtney as she'd been in life--furnished by her
relatives, no doubt--ready for Cedric Hyde or Sally Pong to hold up for
the jury's benefit as Courtney's mother, father, sister, or brother
broke down in tears on the witness stand.  It was Sharon's first real
look at the victim other than the picture that had appeared in People,
Time, and just about every major newspaper in the country.  The media
had exhibited a gallery shot of Courtney, made up to the gills, wearing
an off-the-shoulder formal that showed plenty of cleavage.  The photo
now in Sharon's hand would have a much larger impact than anything the
public had seen up to now.

In this pose Courtney wore very little makeup.  She reclined in a porch
swing wearing a man's shirt and stitched cutoffs which ended tastefully
a couple of inches above her knee, and a Labrador retriever had its
head in her lap.  This Courtney Lee bloomed with innocence, the
girl-and-her-dog shot giving just the right aura of down-home healthy
flavor.  She had a nice trim shape, though there wasn't the slightest
hint of cheesecake in the pose.  Her face wasn't as pretty as Sharon
had thought after viewing the more glamorous photos of Courtney that
had made the media drool.

The subject of this picture was a typical all-American girl, not a
spiteful or nasty bone in her body, and the jury would fall immediately
in love with her.  Sharon wondered if there was any way to get
Courtney's much-sexier magazine shots in front of the panel.  She hated
using such a strategy, but those were the rules of the game.  So live
with it, Sharon thought.  She reached inside the envelope and withdrew
more photos.

Her stomach churned and bile came up in her mouth.

The first picture showed Courtney nude, still in death, face down on
the autopsy table, and the beating she'd taken went far beyond
brutality.  The weapon had been cylindrical, either a pipe or baseball
bat, and had left concave indentations where it had cracked, and
eventually broken through, the skull.  Hair, skin, and bone hung away
from the wounds in clusters.  There were ugly bruises across Courtney's
neck and shoulder blades, indicating that whoever had attacked her had
wielded the bludgeon over and over in a rage.  Who in God's name could
have hated this girl so much?

Sharon thought.  Not Will John Benedict, no way, he was too much of a
coward.  Will John's style, if he'd had the nerve to commit
murder--which Sharon seriously doubted--would have been a single bullet
from behind.  She forced her gaze away from the victim's battered head
and looked at Courtney's arms.  It was as she had expected.

There had been no mention in the press that Courtney had been
tied--nothing sinister here, Sharon thought, since it's SOP in criminal
investigation to shield details from the media that only the killer
could know--but the ligature marks on her wrists were plain as day. The
whirly indentations were clearly braided hemp, which Sharon verified by
thumbing to one of the laboratory forms inside the envelope.  The rope
was of a common variety, available in any Home Depot or hardware store,
and no remnant had been located anywhere around the body.  The
murderer's method was a study in contrast; someone had developed a rage
intensive enough to inflict a madman's damage, yet had retained the
presence of mind to remove evidence in disposing of the corpse.  Sharon
slowly shook her head in wonderment as she moved on to the next photo. 
She ground her teeth and forced herself to be clinical.  Nonetheless,
she winced at the sight.

Same autopsy table, different angle, the body nipped over on its back.
The effect was even grislier than the previous picture and, in ways,
even more puzzling.  The bullet holes in Courtney's temple and cheek
were half again the size of silver dollars, completely obliterating the
right side of her face.  Bone and grayish brain matter showed through
the openings.  Sharon returned briefly to the first photograph and
examined the exit wounds through the left back of the skull, several
centimeters away from the bludgeon marks as if the killer had wanted
one and all to view his handiwork in its entirety.

His handiwork, Sharon thought, or her handiwork?

Because of the brutality of the slaying, the police had assumed that
the killer was a man.  And likely the killer was, but Sharon had pause.
She pictured Cassandra Mason Benedict, the hate in her voice as she'd
spoken of the murder last night at Beggett's Pub.  Cas certainly had
motive, though her motive was quite a bit different than one would
imagine.  The fact that Courtney had been having an affair with Will
John wouldn't have driven Cas to murder, but the threat to her
husband's political career--and to Cas's time in the spotlight--just

might put her over the edge.  Con y ve nient that Cas's own private
eye is a potential alibi witness for Cas's husband, Sharon thought.

The murderer's methods were senseless.  The bullets would have killed
Courtney instantly, so why the vicious beating as an aftermath?  Or
conversely, after bludgeoning gaping holes in the victim's skull, why
would someone roll her over and then shoot her in the face two times?

One killer, or two?

One to beat her senseless, the other to finish her off with a
nine-millimeter.  Or one to shoot her, the other to vent rage on the
dead by ... Sharon tossed the pictures aside and leaned back as the cab
pulled under the awning at the State Plaza Hotel.  She reassembled the
contents of the accordion file, tied the string, paid the driver,
exited the taxi, and tromped wearily through the slush toward the hotel
entry.  A mental picture refused to exit her mind, the image inside the
folder thrust firmly under her arm, the battered, mutilated corpse of
Courtney Lee.

She entered her room.  The red light on her phone blink-blinked, so she
picked up the receiver and punched the numbers to retrieve her
messages.  There was a call from Sheila, and Sharon didn't like her
best friend's tone on the recording.  The voice was cool and
professional, and someone unfamiliar with Sheila's moods wouldn't have
caught the problem.  But Sheila sounded overly professional, as if she
was forcing herself to remain calm in order to keep from screaming.

Sharon fought panic as she returned the call, only to get Sheila's own

voice mail and have to leave a call 7

back.  Christ, what a time for playing phone tag.  Something had
happened to Melanie.  Otherwise, Sheila wouldn't have .. .

There was a note on her bed, a folded piece of paper dead center on the
mattress.  Sharon unfolded the slip and read, in Russ's familiar
scrawl, "Get down to my room, pronto.  RB."  Sharon sank down and
stared vacantly into space.  Until she talked to Sheila, until she was
certain that her daughter was safe and sound, there was no way that
Sharon was going anywhere.

What could be wrong?  A series of images paraded through her mind,
everything from Melanie, pale as a ghost, lying in a hospital bed with
tubes running from her nose, to Melanie, helpless and afraid, tied up
in the backseat of a car while a lunatic drove her to a lonely spot out
in the country.  There to savage her, to ... You're being a dodo,
Sharon Jennifer, she thought.

Likely Melanie had merely asked Sheila's permission to go out on a
school night, and Sheila was getting the okay from headquarters before
giving her answer.

Good God, Sharon thought, I'm having Panicked Mother Syndrome.  She
redialed Sheila's number, got voice mail once again, and told Sheila's
recorder that if she wasn't in her room she'd be in Russ's.  Then she
hustled into the bathroom, checked her makeup, grabbed up her satchel
along with the accordion envelope from the ME's office, and took off
down the corridor.  A knot of dread filled her chest as she thought
fleetingly of Melanie.  She shook her head, closed her eyes, mentally
dialed up Peppier LJpbeat Mood, and hurried on.

* * * Russ's entryway was ajar, the bed's foot board and tufted spread
visible through the opening, the message being.  Come on in, don't
bother to knock.  At the office back in Dallas he closed his door when
he wanted privacy.  Sometimes, depending on the urgency of the
situation or the mischief in her mood, she might disturb him anyway.
Russ barked a lot, seldom bit.  As she approached his room, her medium
heels sinking into padded carpet with a floral design, his voice
carried into the corridor and reached her ears.

Russ was saying, "It's gonna be a long road.  You may as well get
prepared, and it's absolutely necessary that--" At first her mentor's
words were a faint, faraway sound, then upped in volume and became
crystal clear as she paraded down a short entry hall and reached the
foot of the bed.  She came to a halt as Russ finished, "--through the
whole nasty business, both of you show a unified front.  Mama an' Daddy
got to stand behind him.  I already said, I can discuss nothin' with
you unless Will John approves.  You're a lawyer, Paul, you oughtta
understand that."

Sharon stood mute, stunned.  She'd known that eventually she'd have to
face Paul Benedict--had been steeling herself for the occasion, in
fact--but she'd expected more warning.  Suddenly there he was, on a
sofa beside his wife as Russell Black held court from an easy chair,
with a small table in between Russ and Mr.  and Mrs.  Paul Benedict.
And--God, Sharon thought, why does it have to be this way?--where Will
John, Mattie Ruth, and Cassandra Mason Benedict had changed noticeably
over the years, Paul Benedict didn't look a bit different nor one
second older than on the night he'd assaulted her in the wilderness
outside Austin.  His thick gray hair was in place in just the proper
tousled look.  There wasn't a line in his forehead, not a single age
wrinkle that hadn't been evident ten years ago.  His body was trim and
he looked in shape.  He wore slacks and a sweater over a gold shirt.
The same cobalt blue eyes which had mesmerized the female student body
on the Austin campus now gazed directly at Sharon without the slightest
hint of embarrassment.  He even smiled.

Russ paused in his discourse and looked at her.

Mattie Ruth had chosen a black suit and jacket for the occasion, as if
she were ready to address the Senate floor.  She touched her husband's
arm.

"Hon, you remember Sharon Hays."

Paul Benedict rose.  He said in the same booming showroom voice with
which he'd once explained causes of action to the class, "How could I
forget?  The sharp legal mind and the service at the restaurant.  It's
been far too long."  He stepped toward her and held out his hand.

The moment had arrived.  Christ, how could he look so freaking at ease7
His attitude chilled her more than if he'd snarled in lust or cringed
in humiliation.  Jesus Christ, as if she were a stick of furniture, a
used-up condom or something, an object void of feeling or memory.  Oh,
yes, I remember you.  I beat hell out of you and tried to rape you
once, so what time is it?

Sharon recalled her conversation with Sheila.  A sociopath, Sheila had
said, one who saw people as a means to an end and nothing more.
Seething inside, feeling sick to her stomach, Sharon forced herself to
take his hand.  His flesh was dry and his lips curved as if he was
amused.  Thousands of earthworms crawled and wriggled on her skin.  She
curtly nodded.

"Professor."

The exchange was brief, no more than a couple of seconds.  As Paul
Benedict returned to sit beside his wife, Russ continued as if he
hadn't sensed anything wrong, "I was just explainin' how this case
differs from most we handle, in a lot of ways.  Take a seat."

Sharon sat in a chair with a springy cushion, and assumed a
straight-backed posture.  Issues, she thought, legal questions, pure
and simple.  Concentrate on the matter at hand.  She didn't glance in
Paul Benedict's direction.

"The fact that we're all previously acquainted makes it sticky," Black
said, "but nothin' we can't all handle.

I can discuss all aspects, most aspects, of the case with you because
Will John's given me the green light to.

That's his decision.  Here's what's my decision, mine and Miss Hays's.
Nothin' which transpires directly between us and our client, behind
closed doors, is for your consumption.  If you want to know anything we
discussed, ask your boy.  You won't be consulted on any strategy,
Paul."

"That's a given," Paul Benedict said.

"I'm a civil lawyer, Russ.  This is your bailiwick."  His tone was
humble enough, but Sharon doubted if Paul Benedict's ego would allow
him to stay out of the way.  She wondered how long it would be before
Russ tired of another lawyer's two cents' worth and hit the ceiling.

Black stared at his client's father as if measuring the man.  Finally
he said, "I like the words.  Know goin' in that there might be a few
reality checks before this is over."

Mattie Ruth intervened, leaning forward.

"It's your show, Russell."

Russ looked back and forth between the two.

"Good for now.  With all that outta the way, we got a few minutes
before we have to leave for Will John's place.

Miss Hays has been out testin' the waters this mornin'."

His expression softened as he looked to Sharon.

"Surprise us and say the prosecutor's gonna be a teddy bear."

Sharon felt tightness in her neck and shoulders.  She wasn't sure she
could speak rationally with Paul Benedict seated only a few paces away,
but did her best.

She kept her gaze riveted on Russell Black, but Paul Benedict's outline
was prominent in the periphery of her vision.  She cleared her
throat.

"Just the opposite.

I'd be remiss if I didn't tell our client to expect charges any day.
They want his samples, for comparison.  We have until tomorrow to give
an answer.  If we refuse, I expect they'll come up with some flimsy
probable cause, arrest Will John, and take the samples under a court
order while he's in jail.  I vote we give them up, though it will only
delay the inevitable.  Even if the samples don't match, the only answer
you're going to get from that ME is that the results are
'inconclusive."

They'll have to dig a little deeper to charge him then, but they'll do
it."

There was a mini second of silence.  Paul Benedict said from the sofa,
"That bad?"

Sharon couldn't look at him.  The best she could manage was a glance at
the carpet about halfway between her and the couch.

"Worse," she said.

"Not good, but not surprisin'."  Black rested his forearms on his
thighs.  His solid navy blue tie hung down into his lap.

"This prosecutor," he said.

"He efficient?"

Sharon crossed her legs, glad for anything to take her attention away
from the specter out of her past.

"Cedric Hyde.  Comme ci, comme ca, boss.  An oldtimer with a grudge,
likely knows the law books by heart.  His first chair is a woman. 
Sally Pong.  I suspect she's a crackerjack.  Cedric Hyde's been around
long enough to know he's as far as he's going, careerwise, but she
looks on this case as a step up the ladder.

Hyde can spot Milton Breyer two knights and a rook in the courtroom,
but that doesn't make him formidable.

She'll be the main worry."

Russ and Sharon exchanged a look of understanding.

Milton Breyer was a Dallas prosecutor whom they both considered to be
the clod of clods.

"They give you anything at all?"  Black asked.

Sharon indicated the folder from the ME, on the floor near her ankle.

"A stack of crap that may as well have been copied out of the
newspaper.  We'll have to file discovery motions out the wa zoo
Russ."

Black spread his hands, palms up.

"We've filed 'em before."

"Not to the extent that we're going to have to file them in this case.
Plus, we're the out-oft owners who've just fallen down the rabbit hole.
The brotherin-la wing between the prosecutors and the judges in this
city will likely make the Mad Hatter and the

March Hare look sane.  Prosecuting a politician makes these folks lick
their chops.  What I'm saying is, I doubt the courts are going to give
us much relief when it comes to ordering them to turn over evidence to
us, and I think we can save a lot of time by reinvestigating the case
on our own.  We need a support staff."

Paul Benedict spoke up, saying, "For investigative purposes, I
suppose."  He looked to his wife.

"What do we have on the dead girl now?"

Mattie Ruth seemed thoughtful.

"Nothing that I recall.

I'm not sure I even remember her, do you?"

Paul Benedict waved a hand.

"All that office help.

All those interns running around.  I may have seen her.  I'm not
sure."

Queasiness twisted around in Sharon's midsection.

At a time like this" only politicians would consider digging up dirt on
a murder victim.  So how does this differ from the last election?
Sharon thought.  They do it to their opponents all the time, so why not
the dead girl?  The possibility of a smear attack on Courtney Lee had
been in the back of Sharon's mind up to now, but came raging to the
front of her consciousness.

God, she hated this case.  Absolutely despised everyone involved.  She
looked at Russell Black.

Black thoughtfully returned Sharon's gaze.  Paul Benedict continued.

"Translates to a need for additional funds, I suppose."  He took a
small notepad from his pocket.

"How much are we talking here?"

Sharon managed to look sideways toward the sofa, and found herself
watching Mattie Ruth Benedict's knee.  Jesus Christ, she couldn't even
bring herself to look at the guy.  She said, "At least one
investigator, possibly two."

Black leaned back, lifted his leg, and rested his ankle on his knee.

"Anthony Gear generally works alone."

Sharon thought it over.  Anthony Gear was a Dallas private cop, a
former FBI agent whom Black employed on a catch-as-catch-can basis.
Gear was a gem of an investigator, but also a died-in-the-wool racist
and a slob in his personal habits.  Not in this town, no way, Sharon
thought.  She said, "I didn't have Mr.

Gear in mind, Russ."

Black scowled in surprise.

"Who, then?"

"A British couple, the ones who helped me out in

L.A.

"Couple' isn't the right description, actually.

They're not husband and wife.  They're sort of Daria Cowan's
bodyguards.  They won't be cheap, but they'll get results."

"Sounds to me," Black said, "like they already got a full-time job."

"They head up an agency.  Daria won't mind giving them off, as long as
someone can spell them to take their places."  Sharon was beginning to
like the idea.

Working with Lyndon Gray and Mrs.  Welton again might be the only
pleasant aspect of this whole situation.

They were former British Secret Service agents, not to mention that
Mrs.  Welton was once an L.A.

cop as well, and their attitudes and accents knocked Sharon out--all
business, but enough humor to make working with them a joy.  Not only
that, the D.C.

crowd wouldn't intimidate Gray and Welton in the slightest, which was
half the battle won.  Not exactly

John Steed and Emma Peel, but very close.

"I'll call them this afternoon," Sharon said.

"They'll quote their fee and we'll let you know."  She did her best to
look at Paul Benedict, but found her gaze instead on the wall above his
shoulder.

"Money's no barrier.  Consider it done."  Paul Benedict made a note and
put his pad and pen away.

"Are we now ready to go?"  He stood and extended a hand in his wife's
direction.

Black seemed puzzled.

"Go where?"

"Well, you said you were meeting with our boy."

Mattie Ruth put a palm-down hand beside either hip and started to hoist
herself up.

"We'll stay out of your way," Paul Benedict said.

He helped Mattie Ruth to her feet and kissed her cheek.

"Besides," he said, "we know the way and can drive you.  Escort Russell
to the car, Mat, will you?

Miss Hays and I will bring up the rear."

Sharon helplessly gripped the arms of her chair.  The bastard.  She
couldn't avoid him without making a scene, and well he knew it.  The
nerve of the ... Russ looked perturbed, unsure, as if he didn't want
Paul and Mattie Ruth Benedict tagging along but saw no way out.  He got
up and followed Mattie Ruth out of the room as she conspiratorially
gripped his upper arm.  Russ paused in the exit, threw Sharon a glance
over his shoulder, then went on through.  She stood, no one in the room
now except her and Paul Benedict.

She'd never felt more alone in her life.

She hoisted her belongings, tried to step around him and head for the
door.  He blocked her path.  She looked up at him.  She tried to appear
brave and unintimidated but thought she probably looked scared to
death.

"I wanted this chance," he said.

"A private word."

She forced herself to look directly into eyes of cobalt blue.

"Which is?"

"The past.  It can get in the way of progress."

Anger surged within her.  She stood her ground.

"In what way?"

"I can think of a number of examples.  For one, you and your client
were once close."

"Will John and I had ten dates at the most, professor."

He licked his lips, and suddenly seemed unsure of himself.

"And there are matters that you and I should put behind us.  I hope
you're willing."

She put one foot slightly before the other.

"I can see why you would be."

"Everyone has things in their past they're not proud of, Sharon.  You
as well as I."

"My skeletons don't include criminal behavior."

Not entirely true; Sharon had once murdered a man, though no one knew
it and no one ever would.

"Which is far removed from present circumstances."

He stepped toward the door, smirking.

"I confess to a slip, an attraction I couldn't .. ."

"That might be an excuse for an adolescent.  An adult college professor
is supposed to be beyond the raging hormone stage."  She felt as if she
had the upper hand, and squared her posture.

"All right, you've brought it up.  I'm willing to comment."

He stopped and watched her.

Sharon's tone was even.

"Ten years ago you rubbed my face in the dirt.  Accepting your bribe
hurt my selfesteem more than when you tried to rape me.  I'm over it,
just an occasional nightmare."

He showed a frown.

"That's rather harsh.

"Tried to rape' isn't really the proper .. ."

"Oh, stop.  You tried to rape me just like any creep lying in wait out
in the alley.  You know it and I know it."  Sharon worked up an icy
glare as she continued.

"But there are things worth mentioning here, having to do with the case
at hand," Sharon said.

"First of all, I didn't want to come here, but couldn't get out of it
without embarrassing Russ.  I wouldn't do that, ever, so I'm here.  I
don't at this point think Will John committed the crime, though we'll
bust our humps defending him even if we think he did.  I simply believe
you raised him as too much of a whipping boy for him to commit an act
this violent.  Know two things, professor.  If he's innocent, well and
good, you, your wife, and his own wife, can continue to bully him and
use him for your own political purposes.  But if it turns out he's
guilty, you will go through life knowing that fatherly example was a
major factor in his downfall.

I'm not sure that the latter wouldn't be more personally satisfying to
me than winning the case.  So what I'm saying is, the more I see of
you, the more difficult it's going to be for me to defend your son.
Your money will be helpful, even necessary to Will John's chances.  But
if you want a good defense for him you should stay far in the
background, waving your checkbook.

In other words .. . oh, hell.  Just keep away from me, okay?"

I can't explain or justify my actions.  She was so  young and fresh. 
I'm a man, human .. ."  Will John Benedict's gaze was desperate as he
sought approval where there would be none, no way.

Sharon watched with a bland expression.  So you're a man, she thought.
You're human.  Great.  So's every one.  As if every male in this world
felt that being horny would explain away any misconduct including
murder.  When she was a prosecutor she'd come to call such drivel the
Hard-on Defense, which she'd heard from rapists, robbers, burglars, you
name it, guys who rationalized their crimes by citing the irresistible
urge to get laid.  / never would da done it if it hadn't been for that
woman.  Judge.  Christ almighty, Sharon thought.

Russell Black nervously cleared his throat.

"The 'why' idn important anymore, son.  We need facts.  Let us do the
justifyin', if any's necessary."

They were in the living room of the congressman's Georgetown condo,
which to Sharon's way of thinking was the epitome of, well, a condo in
Georgetown.  The building was new-built-to-look-old, with a ribbon of
down-slanted lawn between the porch and sidewalk.

The room where they sat contained antique furniture.

A narrow mahogany-banistered staircase led upward from the entry hall.
The dark red carpet was patterned with nineteenth-century images,
horses pulling carriages and women wearing bustles.  The furniture was
drop-dead gorgeous, and Sharon felt guilty as her backside indented the
cushion of a French Provincial love seat.  Cas Benedict, wearing slacks
and a ski sweater, had escorted Paul and Mattie Ruth into the kitchen
the moment they'd arrived; visible through a hallway opening,
daughter-in-law and parents-in-law drank cups of espresso and pretended
not to eavesdrop.  Cas had given Sharon a nod of acknowledgment,
followed by a quick questioning glance whose meaning was clear: Had
Sharon spilled the beans about their meeting last night?  Sharoft had
answered with a tiny shake of her head.  Russ kept his voice low in
order to keep from being heard across the hall, and had cautioned
Sharon and Will John to do the same.

Sharon balanced her notepad on her thigh.

"Russ is right.  You don't have to justify a thing with us.

Now, yesterday you told us that you took her to the Green Lantern Bar,
in Virginia, and then the two of you went to the Holiday Inn for your
first sexual encounter.

We have the big picture.  We'll need to know who else might've known.
Over a six-month period, how many times were you and Courtney Lee, ah,
together?"

There was a Christmas tree by the window, a live green fir hung with
tinsel and shiny blue ornaments.

In the fireplace, flames crackled and sizzled, and a log burned in two
with a hiss and a shower of sparks.  Outside, melting snow drip-dripped
from tree branches and turned the gutters into icy rushing streams. 
They'd had their first brush with the media upon their arrival.  As
Paul Benedict had rounded the corner in his Mercedes, two mobile news
units had stood at the curb.  Cursing under his breath, with Mattie
Ruth watching cautiously for pursuers, the
law-professorturnedhighpowered-litigant had whipped down the alley to
use the back entrance.  To no avail; the newsies had simply walked
around the house into the yard and fired questions as they'd exited the
carport.

Sharon and Russ had no-commented right and left all the way to the back
stoop, and Sharon suspected that the State Plaza Hotel's safe-haven
status was history.

She felt better, though the Dristan had made her drowsy.  The ache in
her sinuses had receded to a series of nagging throbs.  She waited
patiently for Will John Benedict to answer her question.

The congressman sagged in defeat.

"We were together no more than a dozen times.  Always with her
initiating."

"Be sure on that point.  The prosecution will have your phone records,
count on it.  You never called her, even one single time?"

Will John looked at the floor.

"I suppose I could have returned messages."

Sharon pursed her lips, but wasn't near as exasperated as she tried to
appear.  All criminal clients, guilty or innocent, lied in order to
play down their possible involvement in the crime, and through the
years she'd learned to roll with the punches.  It was the defense
attorney's job to be certain that the clients didn't tell obvious
untruths, thus giving prosecutors a field day on cross.  Sharon asked,
"Who else knew you were having an affair?  Your parents?"  She ignored
a sharp look from Russ.  Both Paul and Mattie Ruth Benedict had earlier
disavowed knowing Courtney Lee.  Am I checking out their stories?
Sharon thought.  You bet your boots I am, old boss; we're representing
this guy, and if pointing the finger at his own parents makes for a
plausible alternate theory, then that's the way the cookie crumbles.
She waited for Will John to reply.

He said quickly, "Of course not.  My mother would have died."

What about your father?  Sharon thought.  She thought that Paul
Benedict's response would have been in the area of, Atta boy, hump her
one for me.

Sharon said, "What about your staff?"

Will John's gaze wavered.

"I'm not sure."

One corner of Sharon's mouth tightened.

"The girl worked in your office.  You can't carry on something like
that without creating gossip.  Elaine Trowell, your assistant?"

There was a downturned look.

"She may have known," Will John Benedict said.

"May have, or did?  They'll put pressure on her to testify against you.
They have a hammer you wouldn't believe, obstruction of justice charges
if she doesn't cooperate, and if she knows anything she'll likely help
them.  If you used your assistant to run interference, to cover up the
affair, you'd best own up to it."

Will John's eyes misted.

"You could say Elaine was aware something was going on.  If Miss Lee,

if Court y they called or came by, she had orders not to tell
anyone.

The reason I gave her, we were working on certain projects.  Elaine
Trowell wasn't born yesterday.  Exactly how much she knew, I'm not
sure."

"More like it.  For our purposes we're assuming the worst, that Ms.
Trowell is an incurable gossip and let your whole staff in on what was
going on.  Okay, moving along.  Motel clerks, bartenders .. . ?"

"We went to the Green Lantern a number of times.

Courtney was familiar with the place before we ... That first night, it
was her idea to go there."

Sharon chewed her inner cheek.  If the Green Lantern in Falls Church
had been one of Courtney's regular haunts, she might've made the scene
with other gentleman friends.  Sharon made a mental note.  She said,
"So the affair went on for half a year.  We may need fill-in details
later, but let's move closer, time wise to the murder.  The newspapers
have reported that you'd gone home for the holidays, but came speeding
back to D.C. to carry on with Courtney."

"Not true," Will John said sharply, then softened his voice and said
more uncertainly, "Not .. . entirely true."

"Clarification is all right," Sharon said.

"Flat denial is pointless.  No one's going to believe that you hot
footed it to Washington during Christmastime to work on your budget.
Courtney was from your home district, wasn't she?"

"Yes, Baytown.  Is there any way we can de-emphasize that
connection?"

Always the politician, Sharon thought.  She said, "Not likely.  The
fact that her father is one of your backers has been splashed all over,
and everyone who knows anything understands that that's how intern
positions are handed out."  She showed a grim smile.

"I

doubt you'll be asking her father for donations in the future."  She
thought of something.

"Courtney didn't go home for Christmas?"

The congressman expelled breath.

"For a few days.

If she hadn't .. . Jesus."

Sharon tilted her chin.

"Hadn't what?"

"Look, I'd made up my mind to end it.  It was just that, damn, every
time I did she'd come on to me and I'd weaken.  The night before I left
Washington for Christmas I told her it was over.  Then, the first
Sunday we were home, Cas and I went to church and there she was, seated
between her parents.  During a conversation with her father I had in
the foyer after the service she kept watching me as if ... you know.
Then right there in front of her parents, while they weren't looking
and Cas was talking to them, Courtney reached out and squeezed my .. .
Jesus."

Sharon couldn't help smirking.

"I'll bet that put you in the mood to worship," she said.  Russ
reddened in embarrassment.  Sharon asked, "So after that, you felt the
urge to contact her?"

"Only to tell her that there wasn't to be a repeat performance of what
had happened in church."

"You called her at her parents' home?"

"Ted Lee goes to the church business meeting on Sunday afternoons.  I
knew he wouldn't be there."

"What about Courtney's mother?"

"She'd gone to a tea."

"Oh?"  Sharon said.

"How did you know that?"

Will John deflated in guilt.

"Because she went with my wife."

By now, Sharon thought, the jurors will be trotting out the hangman's
rope.  An affair with a college student was bad enough, but Will John
being on a first name basis with Courtney's parents would have the
fathers in the courtroom chewing nails.  She said, "What did the two of
you discuss?"

"Her plans to come back to D.C. She'd told her parents that she had
some catching up to do at the office, important enough for her to miss
Christmas Day at home.  She told me to tell Cas the same thing, come to
D.C. and meet her there."

Sharon didn't try to hide her disgust.

"Get out.  This college girl dreamed that story up on her own?"

"She was resourceful."

"Even if she was, no one's going to believe it.  As of now.  Nothing
about whether it was her plan or your plan.  Only that the two of you
talked on the phone and agreed to rendezvous back in Washington.  Every
attempt on your part to lay the blame on Courtney will be
counterproductive."  Sharon looked to Black, who nodded agreement.

"I'm trying to tell it the way it happened."

Sharon couldn't help sympathizing.  Even though everyone in the country
would blame Will John for the affair, she didn't doubt that what he was
saying was partially true.  Men in Will John's position might lust in
private over young women, but few had the nerve to make a pass without
some encouragement.

This was particularly true of man-mouses such as Will John Benedict.
Leading guys like Will John around by the crotch is a piece of cake,
ladies, Sharon thought, and has been since Adam and Eve.

"Just remember what Russ told you yesterday," she said.

"Don't tell it the way it didn't happen, but tell the portions of the
truth that are credible."  She leaned back, pensive.

"So you returned to D.C."  and Cas stayed in Texas.  I'm assuming that
you at least made a show of coming to the office while you were
here."

"Every day."

"Along with members of your staff, who can verify you were there?"

Will John massaged his eyelids.

"Everyone was off."

"What about Courtney?"

"She came on the same days as I did."

Sharon watched him.

"And signed in and out, I suppose."

"Yes."

"Not good."  Sharon peered through the hallway into the kitchen, where
Cas Benedict now stood by the window exhibiting her potted plants to
her parents-inlaw.  Sharon lowered her voice an octave.

"We're now going to the day of the murder, and we're going into detail.
Intimate detail.  Don't be embarrassed, and rest assured that I'm not
asking because of any voyeuristic streak in my makeup.  The police
haven't given us the time of day as yet, but I am in possession of the
autopsy report.  There is going to be physical evidence, body hairs,
fluids, and we're assuming that at least a portion of the evidence is
going to point to you.  We must have a legitimate explanation for every
piece of physical evidence they come up with, and in order to do that
we need intimate details."  She looked briefly at Russ.  This was the
reason that they'd agreed for Sharon to do the questioning; Russell
Black wouldn't be able to broach some of these subjects without
cringing.  Will John watched Sharon like a man about to mount the
gallows.

"She died in a sequined cocktail dress," Sharon said.

"The story published in the newspapers, most of which came from her
roommate, are that Courtney and you were to attend a party.  I've found
it curious that, other than what the roommate has to say, the press
hasn't come up with the particulars on this gathering, where it
occurred or anything else.  Care to elaborate?"

Sharon smiled.

"That's not really a question, Will John, it's an order.  Elaborate.  I
insist.  You have no choice other than to do so."

Will John began to perspire.

"This gets embarrassing."

"Possibly.  But as yet it isn't lethal, which it very likely will be if
you don't open up completely."

"There are parties in this town," Will John began, then licked his lips
before continuing.

"They're secret."

"Obviously.  Even Rita Carboneau doesn't seem to know the location.  If
that gossip-monger doesn't know..."

"It's her existence, the existence of people like her, that keeps it
all hush-hush.  Lord, if I'd known I'd ever be talking about this ..
."

Sharon watched in silence.  Russ Black scooted his chair, tilting back.
Cas Benedict's voice drifted in from the other room, something about
her plants being her therapy, seeing her through the hard times.

Will John seemed to gather himself.

"You hear these rumors the first week you're in Congress.  Not that
everyone goes, just a chosen few who wouldn't want the word around."

"I assume we're talking members of the House?"

Sharon asked.

"A few senators as well.  People with good reason not to want their
private laundry aired."

"Reasons such as wives?"

"Or husbands, in a few cases.  One congresswoman nearly seventy with a
twenty-five-year-old escort."  Will John seemed to be pleading for
acceptance.

"Know I never went to these things before Courtney.  Never even
considered it for my first year in the House.  It was all her."

Sharon arched an eyebrow in surprise.

"She'd been before?"

"That's the whole idea.  Look, it isn't the elected officials who
arrangfe these things.  It's their secret lovers."

Sharon glanced at Russ, whose expression was stoic.

That congressmen and senators were partners in hankypank didn't come as
a shock, and Sharon suspected that the secret get-tog ethers were the
only real bipartisan endeavors in the nation's capital.  If only
Democrats had been involved, the GOP would have blown the whistle to
the press long before now and vice versa  She said, "We're talking some
sort of safe hideaway?

A lease arrangement?"

Will John nodded.

"A house over in Maryland.  I honestly don't know if it's rented or
bought.  Right now there are three women living there."

"Employees of the various elected officials?"

"Yes.  Single women."

Sharon watched the Christmas tree, zeroing in on a plastic angel
holding a candle.  This case was going to be a lid-blower.  She
pictured committee inquiries, senators hamming it up for the benefit of
the viewing audience as they questioned a herd of witnesses.  She
asked, "How often did these parties occur?"

"No set schedule.  When there was a happening, the word sort of drifted
around."

"How?"

Will John looked at her.

"Rumors can drift around," Sharon said, "but here we're talking an
arranged gathering at a specific time and place.  Someone had to get
out the invitations, if only by phone."

Will John seemed resigned.

"Phones were too dangerous.

There was this one page on the floor.  She'd distribute the news."

Sharon's lips parted.  She looked at Russ, who studied the floor.
Sharon said, "God, aren't most of these pages in high schoolT' "This
one was older."

"You mean she was over eighteen."

Will John expelled breath.

"Thereabouts."

"No jail bait for you solid citizens, right?  How did she distribute
the word?  A printed invitation, or ... ?"

Will John assumed a begging tone.

"Sharon, if this ever gets out ..."

"We're only interested in getting you out at the moment.  Come on, how
did she distribute the word?"

Will John toyed with his lapel.

"Committee meeting forms."

Sharon leaned back.

"How novel."

"It's a fill-in-the-blanks thing.  Every member of the House serves on
one or more committees.  It's a daily ritual that one page assembles
the daily log of meetings, fills in the blanks, and distributes copies
among the representatives.  You know, there will be a meeting of
such-and-such at this time or that, at whatever location on whatever
date.  If a party was scheduled over in Maryland, she'd pass out forms
to certain people.

The form would identify a Task Force Committee meeting in the Shuttle
Room at seven p.m. There is no Task Force Committee, but there are so
many committees that someone inadvertently reading the form wouldn't
know the difference."

"I don't guess there's such a place as the Shuttle Room."

"Right.  But there are so many different rooms .. ."

"I gotcha.  As for this particular party, I assume it had to be planned
well in advance."

Will John nodded dully.

"The final meeting of the fall session, before the break."

"And I suppose, you weren't the only elected official who found an
excuse to return to Washington from their homeland during the
holidays."

Will John's tone became matter-of-fact.

"There was an annual thing, always at this time of year."

Which would fit right in, Sharon thought.  Likely the politicians'
constituents thought that their representative was missing Christmas at
home because of devotion to mother and country.  No wonder the Party
was so interested in what was going on in this case.

"How many people attended this function?"  she said.

"A couple of dozen."

"Couples?"

Will John nodded.

"A total of fifty people.  We're going to need a list."

Will John's lips trembled.

"Christ.  Is that necessary?"

"Critical.  The time of your coming and going will be a big deal.  I
don't suppose you know if the police are aware of this haven."

"Not a clue."

"They aren't," Sharon said.

"Otherwise it would have already been in the gossip columns.  What time
did you and Courtney arrive, and what time did you leave?"

"We were there from, oh, eightish, until around midnight."

"I assume these parties are more or less civilized.  I mean, no one's
doing it on the floor in front of everybody, are they?"

"Of course not."  Will John looked indignant.

No one doing it on the floor, Sharon thought.  Just all these married
men and women standing around, having cocktails, chatting gaily,
introducing their stuff on-the-side to the rest of the depraved.  She
said, "What about in the bedrooms?"

"There .. . could be some of that."

"More to the point, Courtney's corpse was decorated with whipped cream.
Was this any sort of group endeavor during the party?"

"Good Lord, Sharon.  You think I'm an exhibitionist?

Whatever we did, we did in private."

"Modest," Sharon said, "but in this case unfortunate.

You've no idea how helpful it would be to find

DNA other than yours on the body.  Did you practice your modesty in one
of the bedrooms?"

"Courtney and I were more private than that."

"Oh, I see.  You attended this orgy, let everyone else take over the
bedrooms, then toddled off to some motel."

"Not always.  Not every time we went out, for God's sake.  Sometimes
we'd just talk, you know."

"About Tolstoy or Shakespeare, no doubt.  On this particular evening,
since one of you had brought the whipped cream along, I guess this was
no occasion for intellect.  Where did you go when you left the
party?"

Will John's gaze shifted guiltily toward the kitchen.

He watched the floor and lowered his voice even more, to a near
whisper.

"Here," he began, then cleared his throat and said, "We came here."

"Here?  To this condo?"

Will John nodded.

"Sweet Jesus and all the angels," Sharon said.

"At the time, it seemed the safest place.  No one was here.  We'd done
this before."

"A safe place for hanky-pank," Sharon said.

"Not such a hot spot to commit a murder.  The first thing the
prosecution will do, at the first hint of probable cause, is get a
warrant to search this condo.  Clean and vacuum all you want.  They'll
find evidence that she was here.  There were carpet fibers on the body.
Five'll get you ten that they connect the fibers to this carpet."

She gestured around the room at random.

Russell Black stood, walked over near the Christmas tree, and rubbed

the sole of his shoe on the car y pet.  He lifted his foot and
examined the bottom.

"Sticks to leather," he said.

"And even better to skin," Sharon said.

"Okay, Will John, we need a blow-by-blow.  Everything that happened
while you and Courtney were here."

"Let's see."  Will John looked thoughtfully toward the fireplace.

"We had a drink in here."

"Standing, or sitting?"

"I mostly stood, near the tree," Will John said.

"Courtney sat on the love seat, right where you are."

Sharon felt a chill.  Within hours of being beaten to death and shot in
the face, Courtney Lee's fanny rested on the same cushion where Sharon
now sat.

She shifted uncomfortably.

"What then?  Straight to the master bedroom?"

"I wouldn't do such a thing in Cas's bed."

"How thoughtful of you.  Where, then?"

"The guest room."  Will John gestured with his head.

"Around the staircase and down the corridor, at the back of the first
level."

Sharon followed the congressman's direction, her gaze coming to rest on
the open kitchen door.  Cas now entertained Mattie Ruth and Paul
Benedict with some photos.

"Probably wouldn't do to inspect the scene right now," Sharon said.

"What's in there?"

"Doubles as a sitting room," Will John said.

"There's a day bed

"A convertible sofa?"

"Yes."

"Which you folded down during playtime?"

The congressman's look showed irritation.

"Look, this isn't funny."

"No, it isn't.  This next bit will be even less amusing.

The girl's autopsy revealed penetration, fore and aft, and there were
pubic hairs between her teeth.  I need details."

Russ suddenly seemed very interested in an ornament on the tree.  Will
John stared into space.

"Okay," Sharon said.

"By the numbers.  Did she perform oral sex on you?"

Will John paled.

"She bragged .. . liked to say, it was her specialty."

"I won't inquire as to her competence in that area," Sharon said.

"But if she said that to you, likely she said that to others.  Other
men she was with.  It could be important.  So, was the guest room also
the scene of the whipped cream incident?"

Will John rubbed his forehead.

"Yes."

"You licked it off her?"

"Isn't that the way it's usually done?"

"I wouldn't know.  Will John.  But there will be saliva residue,
translating to more nails in your coffin.

Was she the only treat, or did she make a sundae of you as well?"

Will John looked ready to throw up.

"Both."

"You didn't lick her clean enough.  There was enough residue for the
coroner to have a taste."

Sharon arched an eyebrow.

"Penetration after foreplay, or vice versa?"

Will John raised his voice.

"My God, how could that possibly matter?"  In the brief silence which
followed, Cas Benedict closed the kitchen door with a farewell thud.

"It won't, unless you take the stand in your own defense."  Sharon
enunciated carefully, wanting her words to sink in.

"But if you do you're going to have to tell this in front of twelve
tried and true, not to mention a national audience.  If you get the
events out of sequence, the prosecution will likely have forensic
evidence to refute you.  The slightest lie that shows up under cross,
and you're toast."  Sharon gentled her tone.

"I'm being this way because it's necessary.  Will John.  It may take
years for you to realize it's for your own good, but it is."

Will John looked to Russell Black.

"This is just horrible," the congressman said.

"Murder is horrible," Sharon replied as Black shuffled his feet in
silence.  She switched gears.

"Enough of that for now.  Between now and when this is over, you should
relive every second of that evening.  Assume you'll have to tell this
story, and tell it exactly right.  So moving on.  After the sex, what
happened then?"

"She .. . sent me on a shopping trip.  Those were her words, not
mine."

Sharon's forehead tightened.

"You went out to buy something?"

"That's right."

"And left her here alone?"

"Yes.  Why, is something .. . ?"

Sharon shook her head in wonderment.

"It just sounds so unbelievable.  You're having a tryst in your own
house, then the trystee sends you out for groceries."

"I can't help how it sounds."

"You may well wish you could at some point.  You left her in bed?"

"Yes."

"Jesus Christ, weren't you afraid of nosy neighbors or something?"

"I wasn't thinking clearly."

"Obviously."  Sharon got up from the love seat, smoothed her skirt in
back, and sat back down.

"What did you go out to buy?"

Will John's eyes misted.

"Drugs."

"Oh, lovely.  From a known dealer?"

"I don't know how well he's known.  He furnishes for some other members
of Congress.  I talked to him face-to-face that night, and he'll
remember it.  I don't know if he has a criminal record, if you're
worried about his credibility."

"It doesn't matter.  Even if he's never gotten a parking ticket,
getting someone to testify that he saw you while he was selling you a
load of cocaine, that might be difficult."  Sharon paused in thought.

"Did you make any other stops while you were out?"

Will John's gaze wavered.

"One."

"Where?"

"She wanted some .. . other things."

"I'll warn you, for the umpteenth time," Sharon said.

"Beating around the bush is a waste of time.

What things?"

"Sex toys.  She was spending the night here."

Sharon blinked.

"You mean, such as dildos and whatnot?"

"A .. . vibrating penis.  A couple of other things.  I went to a shop
in Maryland.  Christ, the last thing she ever said to me was, "Get me
the biggest one they .. ."  Jesus."

"So your alibi witnesses, if we can find them, would be a drug dealer
and a sex shop employee."  Sharon turned toward Russell Black.

"I don't think we can afford to put our client on the stand."

Black stepped away from the Christmas tree, hands dejectedly thrust
into his pockets.

"Might not be the best idea."

"If we can't use an affirmative defense," Sharon said, "then we'll have
to take the passive approach.

Hope that their evidence won't stand up.  I'm just guessing here, but
their main witnesses could be a problem for them.  Those two joggers.
If they could positively identify the guy they saw coming out of the
woods, we'd have read that in the paper by now.  It's something I'll
talk over with Mr.  Gray and Mrs.  Welton.  I'm not sure if we should
try to locate this mystery man or hope the prosecution can't.  This
decision could be a toss-up.  Okay, returning to the events of the
evening.

What did you .. . ?"

Sharon paused.  Will John was watching the floor.

Sharon said, "What is it?"

Will John inhaled through his nose.

"I suppose I should get it out in the open."

"What, you know who the mystery man was?  That might not be so bad.  If
we have to find him, we can."

Will John lifted his chin and looked Sharon in the eyes.

"He'll be easy to find," the congressman said.

"Look no further."

Sharon was puzzled.

"I thought you left her alone in bed.  You said, the last thing she
told you ..."

"The last thing she said to me when she was alive.

I didn't tell you that I never saw her again."  Will John stared
helplessly out the window.

"I have to use the bathroom.  Lord, things are looking bad for me,
aren't they?"

Will John left the room and walked slowly down the corridor with his
head down.  Cas Benedict opened the kitchen door and stuck her head
through the opening.

Sharon held up a restraining hand, smiling.

"We're not finished," she said.

"Just taking a break."  Cas showed an irritated smirk and pulled back
into the kitchen.  Sharon said to Russ, "What do you think?"

"I've seen defendants with better stories."  Black retreated from the
Christmas tree, sat in a rocker, and crossed his legs.

"This one sounds so cock-and-bull, it just might be true."

"One would hope a law school graduate has a better imagination, if he's
making it all up."

Black frowned.

"You keep the pressure on him, young lady.  Trip him up if you can."

Sharon changed her position on the love seat.

"Don't worry, I will.  Know what, old boss?  I don't think Will John
loves me anymore."

"How much of this have you told your parents and Cas?"  Sharon asked.

Will John had just returned from relieving himself, but looked even
more uncomfortable than before.  He said, "My mother, all of it.  I
haven't spoken to Dad about anything.  Cas I've told very little. She's
hard to reason with.  I'll be lucky to come through this with my
marriage intact."


Sharon didn't think that getting a divorce from Cas y sandra Mason
Benedict would be the most tragic thing that could happen to Will John,
but didn't say so.  She arched her back.

"This is going to change your life, and there's really nothing you can
do about it.  Let's go on."

Will John nodded sadly, like a man headed for the gallows.  He exhaled
a long, resigned breath.

"When I left Courtney alone in bed, I was gone a couple of hours.
Bought two ounces of cocaine in a bar and several items in a sex
shop."

"I don't suppose we're lucky enough that you have a dated, time-stamped
receipt."

"No.  I paid cash."

The congressman had apparently made up his mind to stick to the facts,
and that much was encouraging.

Sharon said, "Write down the name and address of the bar and the .. .
call it an adult bookstore or something.  There'll be enough emphasis
on sex in this case without us adding any.  And God help us if we have
to use any of the place's employees as witnesses."

She tore a page from her legal pad, laid the page on the coffee table,
produced a ballpoint from her purse, and placed the pen on top of the
paper.

Will John picked up the pen and hesitated.

"Now?"

Sharon nodded.

"While it's fresh in your mind.

Also, to be frank, so you won't have an opportunity to look up a couple
of names in the phone book, places you've never really visited in your
life, and claim you went to them.  I've told you earlier, I'm treating
this as though I don't believe a word you're saying.  I'm going to
verify everything you tell us.  The prosecution will do the same.  No
one trusts a murder suspect, so you may as well learn to deal with
it."

Will John bent his head to write.

"I suppose I deserve that last part."

"Indeed you do," Sharon said.

The ballpoint made a scratching noise as Will John wrote something
down, stopped to think, then added a few words.  He pushed the paper
aside.

"There.  The bartender knows me.  The sex shop clerk .. . let's say
he's seen me before."

"Ah, a regular," Sharon said.

"Nothing like testimony that you were on the peep-show stool every
Friday to put the jurors squarely in your corner.  Do you remember what
you bought?"

"The vibrating .. . thing.  Rented a video.  Bought a--" "You don't
have to tell me.  The main thing, be certain that whatever list you
give can be checked out."

Will John scooted around uneasily.

"I returned with the goods around two in the morning.  Courtney was in
bed with the lights out.  At first I thought she was asleep, so I got
undressed and got in with her.  Christ, the sheets were soaked.  I
turned on the lights.  I never would have thought there was that much
blood in the world."

"Bloody sheets?  Blankets?  What did you do with them?"

"I was too stunned to move at first.  Then I jumped up and turned on
the lights.  My .. . God.  The back of her head was missing.  All I
could think of was Cas, what she'd think.  I panicked.  I had to try to
cover up what had happened, don't you see?"  Will John's look was
haunted, wide-eyed, and fearful.

"The prosecution will see it that you had the presence of mind to do
away with the evidence.  Spare us the theatrics, you may need them
later.  What did you do then?"

"I ... got some plastic garbage bags from the kitchen."

Sharon pictured the autopsy photos.

"What about her hands?"

Will John frowned in puzzlement.

"They looked clean.  I put on rubber kitchen gloves, so I don't think I
left my fingerprints."

Sharon sighed in exasperation, rolling her eyes in Russ's direction.
She said, "What difference does that make?  You left your pubic hairs
on her body and residue from your mouth in the whipped cream on her
leg.  Think, now.  The autopsy photos showed ligature marks around her
wrists.  Are you saying her hands weren't tied?"

"Oh."  Will John's gaze darted evasively to one side.

"That came later."

Sharon was astonished.

"What came later?"

"It was me.  I bound her wrists."

Sharon leaned back and drew a deep breath.

"Why in God's name would you do that?"

"I had to get rid of the body, somewhere.  I had the presence of mind
to know that sometime, someone would find her.  I thought, if her hands
were tied, it would look more like the work of ... a sadist, maybe."

"Which is how you'll be pictured," Sharon said.

"Where did you buy the rope?"

"I had it around the house, in the garage.  It came from Home Depot."

"That's a plus.  The rope's common variety, could have come from
anywhere.  You'll be hearing about it again.  I suppose you had the
body in your trunk when you went in to do your shopping."

Will John nodded.

Sharon laid her notepad aside, batoning her pen between her fingers.

"Be careful with details.  If you don't get everything exactly right,
they'll crucify you."

Will John spoke like a man reading a script.

"I

wrapped her body in plastic, stowed the bloody sheets and blankets in
garbage bags."

"What did you do with them?"

Will John shrugged.

"Tossed them in a dumpster, en route.  I couldn't really pinpoint the
location."

"Pray that the police can't, either," Sharon said.

"Likely they won't need to, because I suspect that at least a minute
quantity of blood seeped through the bedclothes onto the mattress.
They'll find it.  I assume the same mattress is still on the bed in
there."

Will John looked in alarm toward the hallway.

Russell Black leaned sharply forward.

"Don't even think about it, son."

Will John gaped at him.

"Disposin' of more evidence is the worst thing you could do right now,"
Black said.

"You can count on, there's somebody watchin' your every move.  It'll be
better for you if they find the mattress here than someplace you've
dumped it.  Just leave it alone.  It's not a hundred percent they'll
even look in your guest room, so as of now, just keep your mouth shut
to everybody except me an' Miss Hays."

Will John sagged in defeat.

Sharon asked, "Wasn't she nude when you left her alive in bed?"

"Yes."  The congressman's words sounded hollow.

"The corpse in the park wore a cocktail dress.  A fact that's been
painfully prominent in the news."

"Yes.  I put it on her.  I felt I had to get rid of any traces of her
that might be in the house."

"I've got to tell you, the fact that you weren't too shook up to
carefully dress the body and then dispose of her, that isn't going to
look good.  Eliminates certain defenses for us, such as
heat-of-the-moment, which amounts to manslaughter.  So you drove her to
Rock Creek Park and dragged her off into the woods?"

Sharon asked.

Will John nodded dumbly, all the fight gone from him.

"Those two joggers."

"As I said, I don't think they can identify you, at least not without
coaching from the detectives.  Look for the joggers to be positive it
was you, when they testify.  Odd as it seems, that may be the best
thing you have going for you, if we can establish they've changed their
stories from what they originally told the police."

"I looked away from them as I passed.  Lord, I've never been so
scared."

"Now that part I can believe."  Sharon picked up her legal pad. Russell
Black pinched his pants leg.

Sharon said, "Let me make sure I have the story right.

You brought the girl here and had sex with her.  Then you went out for
drugs and vibrating dildos.  On your return you found her dead, with
blood all over, and your reaction was to dispose of the body."

Will John looked desperate.

"It's the truth, I swear, no matter how it sounds."  He looked to
Black, then at Sharon.

"The more I talk the worse it looks," the congressman said.

"Do I have a chance here, or are we just kidding ourselves."

Sharon exchanged a look with Black.  She dropped her legal pad into her
satchel.

"Officially, until we interview witnesses and get our investigators on
the trail of something, I don't know.  And that's what we'll tell your
wife and your parents, that we just don't know as yet."  Her expression
grew deadly serious.

"But on the level, Will John.  The prosecution makes no noises
whatsoever that they're willing to make a plea offer, so that's not a
consideration at present.  But in the future, any deal, any deal at
all, we should consider with an open mind.  If we tried to tell the
tale you've just given us to a jury, I'm afraid we'd be spinning our
wheels."

Paul Benedict said as he looked out the kitchen window, "There's a
public function tonight.

"Christmas in Washington," a television special.  Alanis Morissette,
Whitney Houston, some groups from the sixties.  The President and First
Lady.  Everyone in the Senate and House who can possibly make it.
Everyone inside the Beltway who's anyone.  I don't see how Will John
can miss it."

Sharon made a face.  She couldn't stand Clinton's music, "Somethin's
Happenin' Here" and all that crap, songs from the Vietnam era, and
Clinton himself being a draft dodger.  She wished that Clinton had been
a Waylon and Willie fan.  She watched her former teacher's back, which
was the only way she could look directly at Paul Benedict, with him
facing away from her.  She and Russ were seated on one side of the
breakfast table, with Cas and Mattie Ruth across from them.  Will John
was at the head of the table, his gaze vacantly off in space.

Russ said, "Easy.  Nobody's going to expect him to go to some party
with everything he's facin'."

Paul Benedict spun around.

"Exactly my point.  The image should be confidence, that it's business
as usual.

Total seclusion will seem a sign of guilt."

"I got to disagree," Black said.

"It'll be a sign of a man that's takin' this deadly serious.  You want
the nation to see a murder suspect out dancin' the Watusi?"

"No.  I want the nation to see a respected member of Congress,
face-to-face, smiling as an innocent man would smile."

Cas Benedict nipped her hair back over one shoulder.

"Besides, I'm going regardless.  I'll look ridiculous without my
husband."

You would go out, Sharon thought, just to see and be seen.  Not many
women in your circumstance would have the nerve.  But you, yeah. You'll
be there with bells on.

Will John watched his wife as if frightened to death of her.

"I'll go if you want me to, Cas," he said.

Black bent from the waist and rested his forearms on the table,
speaking to his client.

"Your choice.  Will John.  It can backfire."

Paul Benedict jammed his hands into his pockets and walked forward a
couple of steps, toward the table.

"He should be there.  And I think his attorneys should go with him."

"I can't go along with that reasonin'," Black said.

"Aside from the fact that I couldn' enjoy Christmas music with all
those politicians hangin' around, what's it goin' to look like?  I can
see the headline now.  the

CONGRESSMAN ACCOMPANIED BY HIS LAWYERS."

Mattie Ruth folded her hands and chimed in, her chin held high.

"Oh, hell's bells, Russell, there'll be headlines anyhow.  The press
already saw you and Sharon, outside here a little while ago, and it's
gonna make them thirsty for more.  So face 'em.  I think the two of you
oughtta make some comment."

"I'd be adverse, Mattie.  You've had your words twisted by the
newspapers enough so's you know it idn a good idea."

Paul Benedict came forward and laid a hand on his wife's shoulder.  He
looked at Black intently.

"Just the newspapers, yeah, if they were the only media present.

It's suicide to talk to them.  But there'll be television cameras.
Everything you say will be documented on videotape.  What you say will
be what you say."

"Dammit."  Black slapped the table with the palm of his hand.

"The time to do our talkin' is at trial."

Sharon hesitated.  The thought of backing up Paul Benedict gave her the
heebies, but .. . "Maybe not in this circumstance, boss," she finally
said.

Black exhaled through his nose as he looked at her.

"Ninety-nine percent of the time you'd be right.  But if nothing else,
the media's going to be interviewing people left and right, for
comments.  With us there in person, certain ones might not say what
they would behind our backs."

Black leaned back and folded his arms.

"I just don't like such gatherin's."

"I don't either.  But sometimes they're necessary."

Sharon ignored Mattie Ruth, Paul Benedict, Will John, and Cas, leaned
closer to her mentor and flirtatiously patted Russ's hand.

"Besides," she said, "what girl in her right mind would miss a function
like that?  Especially when she'd be with the handsomest man in
town."


As Sharon and Russ questioned Will John Benedict at his town house,
there was a meeting in progress at 500 Indiana Avenue.  What had begun
as a two man chat in Prosecutor Cedric Hyde's cubbyhole had grown into
a summit affair.  As word spread and additional participants arrived,
the crowd first spilled out into the corridor and.  then adjourned to
the second floor conference room.

The original head-to-head session between Hyde and Gregory Campisi, the
duly appointed United States Attorney for the District of Columbia, was
somewhat awkward since the two had never met before.  Campisi, in fact,
had had to get directions to 500 Indiana Avenue just as Sharon Hays had
done earlier, and from the same assistant at the main USDA headquarters
who'd given Sharon the information.  Never in recent memory had two
people asked the way to 500 Indiana on the same day. The assistant
wondered what in hell was going on over there.

Campisi had decided to visit the low-rent district so that Hyde could
bring him up-to-date on the murder investigation involving U.S.
Congressman Will John Ben edict.  The USDA had had numerous media
inquiries, and wanted to be certain that his series of no-comments
didn't come back to haunt him in the future.

During the conference, Campisi asked several questions to which Hyde
didn't have the answer.  Rather than admit he didn't know his ass from
his elbow about the case, Hyde called his second chair, Sally Pong, and
told her to sit in.

The summons to Hyde's office caught Pong off guard.  Determined not to
botch her opportunity to shine in front of the USDA himself, she called
in reinforcements from police headquarters, and delayed her arrival at
the meeting until Detectives Ginny Toledo and Isaac Brown showed up to
go with her.  Toledo and Brown had orders to keep Howard Morganthal
apprised of all developments, so dutifully informed the C of D's
secretary that they were headed for 500 Indiana to help Pong fill
Gregory Campisi in on the details of the investigation.

On returning from a discreet lunch with Rita Carboneau, Howard
Morganthal hit the ceiling.  Christ, now Greg Campisi was sticking his
nose in.  Like Morganthai, Campisi had his own network of media
contacts, and all Morganthal needed was for Campisi to go leaking
information to the wrong people.  Incensed, Morganthal canceled his
afternoon meetings and hustled over to 500 Indiana, arriving just as
Cedric Hyde led Gregory Campisi, Sally Pong, Ginny Toledo, and Isaac
Brown to the second-floor conference room.

Morganthal smirked at Campisi and then fell in step at the rear.

So here they sat, Campisi and Morganthal at opposite ends of the table.
Pong and Hyde holding down the side across from Toledo and Brown.  One
of Pong's two thick file folders lay open in front of her. Toledo had a
large folder as well, while Brown had brought along a series of
near-indecipherable notes he'd taken on paper napkins and steno pads. 
It was likely the first meeting in the history of 500 Indiana where one
of the participants wore a tux, cumber bund and all.

Gregory Campisi's explanation for the formal wear was that he would be
too busy to go home and change before attending "Christmas in
Washington" at the Kennedy Center that evening.  Sticking prominently
out of his breast pocket, causing Campisi's underlings to drool, were
his tickets to the event.  Howard Morganthal had left his own tux back
at the office, and was mentally cursing himself for the oversight.

"Christmas in Washington" was the social function of the week, and
everyone who was anyone would be there.  As soon as Campisi had
explained his own wearing of the tuxedo, Morganthal had dropped in the
information that he was going to Kennedy Center that night as well.

Morganthal touched manicured fingers together.

"I

think it's time to be talking probable cause."  He didn't add that Rita
Carboneau was about to hint in her column that an arrest was imminent,
a matter which the C of D's had discussed with Carboneau over oysters
Rockefeller less than two hours earlier.

Campisi, a dark-complexioned man with a shock of jet black hair, had a
dilemma.  He was a Democratic appointee.  Part of the reason for his
visit today was that certain bigwigs, including the President's
National Security Advisor, had expressed dismay that Russell

Black and Sharon Hays had said they wouldn't provide the Party any
details.  Campisi said, "We don't want to jump the gun here."

Morganthal spread his hands, palms up.

"What's jumping the gun?  We have a witness who saw him leaving the
scene of the crime.  Anyone else, we'd have locked up days ago."

The cops and AUSDAs swiveled their heads back and forth like spectators
at a tennis match.

"Exactly the point," Campisi said.

"This isn't just anyone.  We are talking charging a member of the House
of Representatives."

Morganthal's boss, the chief of the Metropolitan Police Force, owed his
job to a group of Republicans.

The C of D's exchanged a look with Toledo and Brown, then said, "Which
makes us more vulnerable in the public eye.  We've already got people
calling, accusing us of playing favorites.  Detective Toledo, we do
have a positive ID, don't we?  The .. . stranger in the park, the two
joggers .. ."

Ginny Toledo turned to a portion of her file where she'd placed a
bookmark.

"To be explicit, sir, the man is positive.  The woman isn't so sure."

"Is he positive enough to execute an affidavit, that we could take to a
judge to get a warrant?"

"-It would appear so, Mr.  Morganthal.  We haven't asked him that
direct question."

"If he will, then what's the problem?"

"I don't see that there is one.  But didn't we agree that we'd hold off
until we could get samples from the suspect, for DNA comparison?"

Morganthal waved a hand.

"We might have discussed it.  I don't know that we made any agreement
with anybody."

"Now hold on here, Howard."  Campisi cut in, then directed his words to
Cedric Hyde.

"Haven't you been in contact with the congressman's lawyers?"

Cedric Hyde's tone was uncertain, like a man's who was in heavier
company than he was accustomed to.  ""Lawyer, Mr.  Campisi.  Singular.
Miss Hays.  Mr.  Black didn't see fit to grace us with his presence."

"Rude, perhaps," Campisi said, "but not necessarily sinister.  Did you
make any agreements with Miss Hays?"

"I didn't.  Did you.  Sally?"  He looked relieved to take the spotlight
off himself and place the beam squarely on his assistant.

Pong was ready.  She spoke up quickly.

"I made no agreement with her.  But wasn't there something said while
we were all in your office, about when we could get Mr.  Benedict's
samples?"

Hyde was emphatic.

"No way did I promise anything.

I told her we'd expect an answer in the morning, but made no promises.
In fact, she asked me if we'd keep them advised before we arrested
their client, and I told her no.  You recall that, don't you?"

"That's right," Pong said.

"You did.  And once we have the suspect in jail, getting a court order
for his samples will be a piece of cake."

Morganthal checked his watch.

"If we could get an affidavit executed by the witness in the next hour,
we could likely get it to a judge before the day is over."

He frowned in thought.  If he effected an arrest before Rita
Carboneau's column hit the streets, Carboneau would be pissed.  He'd
have to chance it.  He made a mental note that as soon as this meeting
was over, he'd have to get Carboneau on the phone.

Campisi took a final, desperate stab.

"I'd think before we went off half-cocked, we'd want to get our
prosecutors together to be certain we've dotted our is and crossed our
t's.  In a legal sense."

Pong spoke brightly up.

"We're covered in that regard, sir."

Campisi masked his disappointment.

"There's something else to consider.  If we get the warrant, go to
Benedict's home and he's not there, our suspect will be alerted that
we're looking for him.  Wouldn't it be better to wait until we're
certain where he's going to be at a given time?"

Morganthal zeroed in on the ticket in Campisi's breast pocket.

"That's easily taken care of," the C of D's said.

"We're certain where he'll be tonight, aren't we?"

The entire group gazed at Morganthal in puzzlement.

"Where everyone who's anyone will be," Morganthai said.

"Tell me, Greg.  Does buying a ticket entitle you to a guest list?"

All eyes on him, Campisi hid his dejection and unfolded a slip of paper
he'd been carrying in his breast pocket.  He scanned the list, showing
hope, then his mouth turned down in disappointment.

"He's on here," the U.S. Attorney said.

"Congressman Will John Benedict.  Party of four."

ha ron and Russ returned to the hotel to clean up and change.  As they
parted company on their floor outside the elevator, Black wore a glum
expression.

He absolutely hated social functions.  Sharon considered advising her
boss that this would be a formal affair, but changed her mind.  Russ
would dress as he damned well pleased; he'd wear a dark suit, but that
would be as far as he'd go.  After a quick see-you-inan-hour, Sharon
hustled down the corridor to her room.  She wondered about her own
motives.  Had she insisted on attending "Christmas in Washington"
because she thought it would help their client, or was she getting
caught up in the whirl?  In a place like D.C."  getting caught up would
be easy to do.

She showered and dressed, wriggling around on the bed like a model in a
jeans commercial as she put on her panty hose and, once she'd slithered
into her cocktail dress, twirling in front of the mirror to view
herself from every possible angle.  She stepped into wine colored suede
spike-heeled shoes, shook out her mink jacket, sniffed the fur, and
tossed the jacket on the bed.  She was glad that the previous summer
she'd sprung for the cost of putting the fur in storage; she hadn't
worn it in several years, and a couple of seasons ago had hung the mink
in her closet and stuffed the pockets with mothballs.  She'd finally
had the mink cleaned and stored only because, someday when she was
gone, she didn't want Melanie to gag from the odor as she received her
inheritance from dear old Mom.  She took her lone pair of diamond-chip
earrings from her overnight case, poked one post through a pieced lobe
and fixed the catch, and was tugging down on her other ear when she
froze in place.  The message light on her phone blinked monotonously.
Sharon dropped her hand to her side, loosely holding the pieces of her
earring.

Damn, she'd been playing phone tag with Sheila all day.  Earlier she'd
even left the number for Will John Benedict's condo, in case Sheila's
call was an emergency.

Either Sheila hadn't gotten the message or she didn't want to discuss
anything earth-shattering, since she'd chosen to leave the message at
the hotel once again.  Sharon picked up the receiver and punched in her
voice mail, and sure enough it was Sheila who had called.  She
hurriedly punched in her best friend's number but missed connections
once again.  She listened to Sheila's recorded message fifteen hundred
miles away, waited for the tone, and briefly licked her lips as she
gathered her thoughts.

Finally she said into the mouthpiece, "It's Sharon, babe.  I'm going
out to ... well, I'll fill you in on the details later, but it's a tony
affair.  Suppose we're going to have to spring for cell phones, huh, so
we can interrupt each other fifty times a day to chat.  Anyway,

toodle-oo, but I'll find a pay phone where I am and call you back at
exactly ten p.m. That's nine your time.

If your phone rings at straight-up nine, it'll be me."

She hung up, affixed her other earring, shrugged into her mink,
artfully tousled the front of her hair, scooped up her evening purse,
and headed out the door.  She paused in the exit and glanced once more
at the phone, feeling a slight tremor of dread.  No way had anything
happened to Melanie, or Sheila would be having her paged all over town.
Sharon secured the lock, stepped out into the hall, and softly closed
the door.

It was snowing lightly as the taxicab made the curve off New Hampshire
Avenue onto Rock Creek Parkway, and neared the majestic entry to
Kennedy Center.

The mammoth structure literally glowed, flakes drifting down,
moisture-formed halos around the sodium lights at the perimeter of the
building, the whole scene like a picture on a greeting card.  There was
a block-long row of taxis and limos waiting to deposit passengers, and
the taxi driver braked and got in line.

Russell Black watched the proceedings in silence, his nose casting a
shadow across his cheek, and Sharon thought her mentor's expression
resembled Commander's look when she banished the shepherd to the
yard.

She reached over and patted Russ's arm.

"It'll be over before you know it, old boss," she said.

Black rested his chin on his lightly clenched fist.

"Not near soon enough."

Sharon made her tone nice and cheery.

"Come on.

It's Christmas in Washington."

"Yeah, right," Black said.

"All kind of Santy Clauses running around this city.  Keep an eye on me
while the show's going on, girl.  If you don't poke me every once in a
while, I'm liable to snore."

Row after row of portable bars were set up in the lobby, encircling a
glistening ceiling-high Christmas tree, with men and women in vests and
bow ties pouring highballs, dispensing Evian water, or rattling chrome
interlocking cocktail shakers.  Russ wasn't the only man not wearing a
tux, though he was definitely in the minority.  As for the women--holy
cannoli, Sharon thought--she didn't think she'd ever seen so many fox
and ermine jackets in one room before.  She recognized several
high-profile senators, chatting in groups of four or five, and one
actor whom she'd seen in bit parts and TV commercials.  Russ went off
to find a Scotch and water for her and a beer for him.  She slipped her
evening purse into her jacket pocket and waited near a granite
pillar.

Most of the crowd was clustered near the main entry, where the First
Couple along with their entourage of secret service agents would make
their appearance.

Formally dressed men and women pretended to sip and visit while
shooting surreptitious glances toward the street in search of the White
House limo.  As Sharon watched.  Will John Benedict entered the lobby
with Cas on his arm, and with Paul and Mattie Ruth a couple of paces
behind him.  There was a pause in the hubbub of conversation among the
crowd, a lowering of voices as people put their heads together in
gossip mode.  Sharon turned away.  No way, ever again in her life, did
she intend to face Paul Benedict without Russell Black as a buffer in
between.  As she searched the bar area with her gaze, a husky female
voice said from behind her, "Well.  The famous Miss Hays."

Sharon turned.  Rita Carboneau's pictures on her book jackets and in
the newspapers missed the mark; the features were the same, the coiffed
hair and surgery enhanced body just as stunning, but the photos were
air-brushed and hid much of the toughness in Carboneau's look.  The
face was wrinkle free, but the glitter in the eyes said, "been there,
done that," to every question imaginable.  Sharon stood her ground and
didn't say anything.

Carboneau was dressed in a silver low-cut sheath with a stole around
her shoulders.  She said, "The TV pictures don't do you justice,
Sharon.  I'm Rita Carboneau."

She extended her hand.  She wore soft white, forearm-length gloves with
a diamond bracelet around her right wrist.  That bracelet is ten
thousand bucks' worth if it's a dime, Sharon thought.

Sharon didn't want to shake this woman's hand, but didn't see that she
had any choice.  She offered a medium grip.

"Your pictures don't do you justice, either, Ms.  Carboneau."

Carboneau's smile had a sharklike quality.

"Rita.

Call me Rita.  Please."

Sharon saw no point in putting this woman on.  She dropped her hand to
her side.

"I'd rather not, Ms.

Carboneau."

Carboneau arched an eyebrow.  Her smile appeared frozen in place.

"Oh?  Do I detect a hint of touchiness here?"

Sharon mildly shrugged her shoulders, conscious that all at once she
and Carboneau were the center of attention, faces turning toward them
from all directions.

She wondered fleetingly how this confrontation would play in tomorrow's
Post.  She said, "I think what you detect is a hint of, we both know
who's on what side."

Carboneau wore large diamond earrings and a necklace to match.

"I'm not on any side, Sharon.  What's happening is news."

"Oh, I don't have any problem with the reporting," Sharon said.

"It's the slanting that bugs me."

A young man walked up behind Carboneau, a guy around thirty, a hunk
with broad shoulders, thick dark hair, and a Cary Grantish cleft in his
chin.  He carried two stemmed glasses filled with bubbly something-or
other and offered one to Carboneau.  The author took the drink and the
guy stood back.  Carboneau touched her necklace as she said to Sharon,
"Am I getting it right, that it would be pointless for me to ask for an
interview?"

Sharon couldn't help laughing, though she thought it to her credit that
she held her mirth down to a polite chuckle.

"For free?"  Sharon said.

Carboneau frowned.

"I've got to tell you," Sharon said, "that it's a bit insulting that
you'd ask to talk to me without offering at least your going rate."

Carboneau didn't try to hide her anger.  Her voice trembled.

"Would the same go for Russell Black?"

She looked beyond Sharon, over her shoulder.

Sharon followed the author's gaze.  Russ was on his way, with a
highball glass in one hand and a bottle of Heinekin's in the other.
Sharon supposed that he'd been gone longer than she'd expected because
the bartender couldn't locate any Budweiser on tap.  She turned back to
Rita Carboneau.

"Trying to interview Russ," Sharon said, "would be a bigger waste of
time than trying to interview me."

Carboneau tightened her mouth.

"Oh?  Wouldn't you like to get your client's side of the story before
the public?"

"Yes," Sharon said, "but not at the cost.  Tell you what, though.  How
about, tit for tat?  You can interview us and we'll interview you at
the same time.  You can take notes on wHat we have to say and we'll do
the same."

Carboneau moved back a step.  The hunk put his arm protectively around
her.  Carboneau said, "I doubt I'd have any information that would
interest you."

"Oh?  How about, who you're paying for all this inside information I'm
reading in your column?  That's something that would help in our
client's defense."

Sharon smiled at Black as her mentor walked up, and took her drink from
Russ's hand.  Black eyed the author with a curious scowl.  Sharon said,
"How about it, Ms.  Carboneau?  You interested?"

Carboneau breathed in through her nose.  She leaned against her escort,
then turned to walk away.

"Nice meeting you, Sharon," Rita Carboneau said in a dismissive tone.

* * * Paul Benedict tried to maneuver things around so that Sharon
would have to sit beside him during the performance.  She wasn't
imagining things, though his routine was pretty slick.  As Sharon
followed the Benedict family down the aisle with Russ a step behind
her, her former law school prof was in the lead with Mattie Ruth behind
him, Cas trailing her mother-inlaw, and Will John walking behind his
wife with his head down.  Mattie Ruth wore a taffeta gown with a full
skirt to her ankles, while Cas had on a hugging green cocktail dress
that was short enough to show her legs and figure to their best
advantage.  Congressman's wife or no, Cas had stayed toned and in shape
through the years, and Sharon wouldn't have been female if she hadn't
drawn a comparison to herself.  A tie at worst, she thought with a hint
of smugness, though in truth I think I've got her beat.  At thirty five
years of age and a shade under five-feet-ten, Sharon Hays could still
fit comfortably into a size nine.  She thought that strict dieting and
twice-a-week morning runs were probably worth the agony.  Not bad for a
teenager's mom, Sharon thought, if I do say so myself.

Their seats were choice, six across beginning at the aisle, and four
rows from the front, three behind where Bill and Hillary would sit
surrounded by bodyguards.

Paul Benedict stood aside to let Mattie Ruth enter the row.  Cas waited
expectantly in the aisle for him to follow her.  The older man said
brusquely, "Tell you what.  Let's do girl-girl-boy-boy.  I need a word
with my son."  He held out his hand in an usher's pose.

Cas nodded and paraded obediently in to sit beside her mother-in-law.
Will John paused until his father told him, "Go ahead," then edged his
way down the row and took the chair alongside Cas.  Now Paul Benedict
brushed past Sharon as she stood in the aisle, leaving the two end
seats for her and Russ.  God, just the touch of Paul Benedict's
clothing against her skin made her insides wriggle.  He sat, and locked
gazes with Sharon as he waited for her to take the seat beside him,
leaving the aisle position for Russ.  Sharon's choices were to sit down
beside the man who'd once tried to rape her, or create a scene right
here in Kennedy Center in front of God and everybody.

Sharon said to Black, "Listen, boss, you mind if I take the aisle? I've
been missing calls from Sheila and might have to get up to use the
phone."  She blinked apologetically.

"Might not look like the most gentlemanly arrangement to the
onlookers."  She nodded toward the audience at large.

"But believe me it's the most practical."

Black hesitated, puzzled.

"I guess it won't hurt," he finally said, then plopped down alongside
Paul Benedict.

Sharon sat on the end, and couldn't help grinning inwardly at
Benedict's sigh of disappointment.  And the horse you rode in on, you
bastard, Sharon thought with a touch of glee.

The show was a knockout, and Sharon jiggled her foot in rhythm as
Aretha Franklin, Gladys Knight, and Whitney Houston sang "Silver Bells"
in round, with the two rock divas beginning the song and Whitney really
belting out the final stanzas, the Washington Philharmonic jazzing up
the number in the background.

Three rows in front of Sharon, the President's head bobbed up and down,
and the First Lady looked as if she'd like to dance in the aisle.  Even
the secret service agents seated around the Prez and his missus snapped
their fingers.  Russell Black watched stoically, his cheek resting on
his clenched fist, and Sharon came within an inch of knocking Russ's
elbow off the armrest to get his attention.  Absently, she checked her
watch, then stiffened and sat bolt upright.  God, three minutes until
ten.

She looked frantically around, holding the watch up to her ear.  The
timepiece ticked steadily away.  Could this show have been going on
more than two hours?

She couldn't believe it.  She'd promised to call Sheila at ten, and
this time she wasn't going to be late.  Without a word to Russ, she got
up and headed for the exit.  Leaving in the midst of a performance was
a no-no, of course--though, Sharon thought wryly, that hadn't stopped
New York crowds from walking out during some of the turkeys in which
she'd acted off Broadway--and she was glad she'd timed her departure
during such a rousing number.  All the way up the aisle, heads jiggled
and fingers popped, and no one seemed to notice the rude young woman in
wine colored shoes as she hustled out of the auditorium.

Chalk it up to my being from Texas, folks, Sharon thought, and assume I
just don't know any better.

The thick exit door swung closed behind her, muffling the sound from
the stage, and the sudden quiet in the lobby was deafening.  Two
bartenders shot the bull near one of the pillars and a uniformed guard
stood just inside the entrance.  Sharon's soles whispered on carpet as
she skirted the Christmas tree on her way to the bank of phones.  She
picked up the receiver, punched in zero plus Sheila's number, waited
for the gong-prompt and then entered her calling card, and leaned
against the wall with the phone jammed between her cheek and shoulder.
Through a forest of pillars the main entrance was visible, and
something about the guard drew Sharon's attention.  This was no
security employee; this potbellied guy wore the uniform of the
Washington PD.  As Sharon watched, three more cops came in from the
street to stand with the first policeman.  They wore overcoats and
gloves.

Sharon frowned.  Sheila answered on the third ring.

"It's me, babe," Sharon said.

"Finally getting together with you."

There were a couple of beats of silence, after which Sheila said in a
hushed tone, "Can you talk?"

"Sure, what's ..."  A tremor of dread paraded up Sharon's spine like
prickling icicles.

"Melanie's all right, isn't she?"

"She's not hurt, if that's what you're asking."

The plastic mouthpiece brushed Sharon's lips.

"What's wrong, Sheila?"

"Probably not as much as I'm letting on.  It's all part of growing
up."

Sharon breathed in as, visible through the glass entrance, three squad
cars pulled up to the curb followed by two unmarked sedans.  She said
to Sheila, "If you don't tell me what's wrong, and right now, I'm going
to--" "I'm not being coy, old girl," Sheila said.

"It's just that I don't know the gentlest way to break the news.

I've debated not even telling you, frankly, and the soul-searching I've
done over the past twenty-four hours you wouldn't believe."

"Sheila ..."

"Melanie went out last night.  Through the bedroom window.  It was just
a freak that I know about it.  Trish is taking a prescription for a
two-day bug she caught last week, nothing serious, but I went in about
eleven to be sure she hadn't forgotten her pill.  Trish was in bed with
a bunch of pillows stuffed under the covers to stimulate Melanie.  I'll
say this for my little girl, she's no stool pigeon.  Took an hour under
the heat lamp and a session with the rubber hose, but I finally sweated
it out of her."

Sharon turned her back to the Kennedy Center lobby and lowered her
head.  Sheila's humor was forced, as if she was softening a blow.

"Where did Melanie go?"  Sharon asked.

"I don't think it's anything earth-shattering," Sheila said.

"Think back to your own youth, the tricks you pulled."

"Where did she go, Sheila?"  Sharon snapped, then immediately felt
remorse.  Sheila was only trying to help.  Sharon said, more softly, "I
can take it, if you're trying to protect me from something."

Sheila exhaled a long slow sigh.

"Trish finally confessed that Melanie was out with a boy.  An older
boy.

In a car."

Sharon sagged against the phone stand.  She'd done the same thing as a
teenager, with an eighteen year old named Buster Long when she was
fifteen.  He'd taken her to Flagpole Hill, forcibly yanked down her
pants, and Sharon had fought for her life to get away from the guy. The
incident had scared her so badly that she hadn't dated for a year, and
at her age had frightened her even more than the time when Paul
Benedict had tried to rape her.  She said to Sheila, "Tell me all of
it."

Sheila's voice was an emotionless monotone, the psychiatrist in her
working overtime as she lapsed into patient-doctor mode.

"After Trish told me where Melanie had gone and outlined her escape
route, I parked myself on the back porch in a lawn chair.  Melanie came
scrambling over the fence about five in the morning.  She was sobbing,
so hysterically that she was halfway across the yard to the bedroom
window before she realized I was sitting there.

"I soft-pedaled it as much as possible," Sheila said, "without coming
across as a total uncaring adult.  I told her all the usual stuff,
about how you read in the paper every day, you know, all that.  She
didn't know I'd seen her crying, and went into Belligerent Teenager
Syndrome immediately.  She hadn't had a good time, Sharon.  It was all
she could do to keep from crying some more.  I sent her to bed, and we
haven't discussed it since."

Sharon slowly turned to face the entrance once more, and watched in
curiosity as more policemen poured into Kennedy Center.  She said, "Is
that all?"

Sheila didn't say anything for a couple of seconds, then answered, "No,
it isn't."

Sharon's eyes widened slightly as Sally Pong entered the building with
Cedric Hyde close behind her.  The two prosecutors were dressed in

suits and khaki top236 Sarah Gregory coats.  Pong's skirt was a couple
of inches above the knee and her makeup was perfectly fixed.  Sharon
sensed what was going on, but had other things on her mind.  She said
into the phone, "I didn't think so."

"There was blood in her underwear, Sharon.  Oh, don't think I stripped
her down, I'm not that uncool, but the poor child is too inexperienced
to so much as hide the evidence.  She tossed her panties in her laundry
basket.  I'm sure that in undressing in the dark she didn't even
realize they were bloody.  I took the girls' things out to wash this
morning, and there they were."

Sharon's vision blurred.  Oh, Melanie, she thought.

My sweet, sweet baby girl.

"I'm coming home," she said.  She was barely conscious of Pong, Hyde,
and three policemen approaching the auditorium entrance.

An usher blocked their path.  The cops roughly shouldered the usher
aside.  Pong carried a piece of paper, folded over once.  It was a
warrant, of course.  Hyde followed the policeman inside.  Pong's gaze
swept the lobby; she spotted Sharon and did a doubletake, then made a
beeline for the telephones.  Sharon said into the mouthpiece, "It's my
fault, Sheila."

"I won't listen to that, as doctor or friend.  It's curiosity, the same
as you had and I had at Melanie's age.

It's going to happen sooner or later.  We simply have to deal with
it."

Sharon watched Sally Pong's approach with an odd detachment.
Nothing--including Pong's warrant, absolutely freaking nothing--took
precedence over what she was hearing from Sheila.  Sharon said, "The
sex part, probably.  But the sneaking out?  It's rebellion, Sheil.  To
my deserting her in the middle of the holidays, to Rob's indifference
.. . Jesus Christ, I can't ..."

Pong sashayed up and held out a stack of paper.

There were several copies with their pages stapled.

Sharon took one and glanced at it.  So they'd convinced a judge to
issue a probable cause warrant.

Which didn't mean a great deal--most judges dozed cozily through their
careers and signed whatever warrants prosecutors thrust in front of
them without more than a perfunctory glance--other than to back up what
Sharon had suspected all along.  That Cedric Hyde hadn't had any
intention of waiting until morning for Will John's lawyers to surrender
his DNA, and that the prosecution's word wasn't worth two cents.

So what else was new?  Pong stood expectantly by.

Sharon covered the mouthpiece with her hand and turned her back.  Pong
was speechless for an instant, then turned on her heel and stalked
huffily away.

Sharon said to Sheila Winston, "I've got to go.

They've just served me with a warrant."

"A warrant for what?"

"My client."

"The congressman?"

"Yeah.  It's not a big deal."

"Maybe not to you, Sharon.  To the world it will be.

This is number one on the national news."

"Screw the world," Sharon said.

"I'm coming home."

"Your choice.  I won't deny that Melanie could use you right now.  But
I'm standing by if you-- " "Right now, Sheila.  I'm headed straight for
the airport.

See you in the morning, okay?"  She hung up.

The enormity of what had happened to Melanie and what it could do to
the rest of her life hit home to Sharon Hays in the mammoth Kennedy
Center lobby.

The floor shifted beneath her feet and the room spun dizzily around.
She leaned against a pillar for support, waited for her head to clear,
then stepped forward as the auditorium doors swung open and the cops
spilled into the lobby with Will John Benedict in tow.

Will John's expression was one of absolute terror.

They'd cuffed his hands behind him and two cops had him between them,
one clutching each of his elbows.

A gang of reporters had assembled as if by magic; the crowd parted in
front of the lawmen and their prisoner and two men hoisted minicams
onto their shoulders, pressed buttons, and aimed their lenses.  Will
John gaped wildly about.  His gaze rested on Sharon.

"Help me.  Please, Sharon, I ..."  The policemen bowed their necks and
pushed him firmly on ahead.

Pong and Hyde followed close on the lawmen's heels.  Pong stopped in
her tracks.

"Through with your call.  Miss Hays?"

Sharon didn't take the bait.  She said merely, "Why, yes."

"Far be it from me to interrupt," Pong said.

"But if you're interested, your client will be at the main city jail.
The arraignment will be Monday."

Sharon couldn't hide her shock.

"Hey, this is Wednesday night.  You can't get a bail hearing in the
morning?"

"We tried."  Pong and Hyde exchanged an open smirk.  Pong said, "But
you know these court dockets."

Sharon opened, then closed, her mouth.  Dirty tricks,

the dirtiest of tricks.  The law required only that the hearing occur
within seven days of the suspect's arrest, but the rule of thumb was
that prosecutors showed the defense the courtesy of setting or denying
bail at the earliest possible time.  Which generally was the following
morning.  So much for rules of thumb, Sharon thought.

Now Russ Black hurried up, followed by Paul and Mattie Ruth Benedict.
One minicam operator trained his machine on the senator.  For once she
ignored being in the spotlight, dabbing at her eyes with a
handkerchief.  Her grief was real.  Through the open auditorium doors,
the orchestra played on.  Faint and far away, a strong male tenor voice
sang, "Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire."  The singer sounded like
Wayne Newton, and probably was.

Russ leaned close to Sharon.

"I think you oughtta go to the jail and hold Will John's hand through
the bookin' process.  I'll stick with the boy's folks.  They're gonna
need support."

Sharon permitted herself one glance at Paul Benedict.

God, the bastard had lost none of his smugness even with his son under
arrest.  She steeled herself.

What she was about to say was going to hurt.

"I can't, boss," she said softly.

Black gaped at her, as if he'd just been punched in the solar plexus.

Sharon continued quickly, afraid she might lost her nerve.

"Trouble at home, Russ.  So much trouble you wouldn't believe.  I've
got to catch a plane to Dallas."

Black was incredulous.

"You can't, young woman.

At a time like this?"

"At a time like this or at any other time.  Melanie's ... don't ask me,
Russ.  I've got to go."  She dropped her gaze and started to walk
away.

Black stepped after her.

"Well when're you coming back?"

Sharon stopped and turned.  Her throat ached.  Russell Black meant more
to her than anyone in the world except her daughter.  She blinked back
tears.

"I almost didn't come on this trip," she said, "for a number of
reasons.  One of which is Melanie.  I have to straighten out some
things.  As for coming back, I just don't know.  At this moment, I'm
not sure if I will."

ormally the thought of boarding a flight from D.C. to Dallas while
wearing a cocktail dress and fur would have turned Sharon beet-red in
embarrassment, but now she had other things on her mind.  She ignored
the curious glances from passengers and flight attendants, and sat bolt
upright at the rear of the business class cabin.  She arrived in Dallas
without luggage, exited the airport into seventy-degree foggy mist, and
boarded a taxi.  The cab deposited her in front of Sheila's house at
two in the morning.  Central Standard Time.  She went up the sidewalk
with her mink dangling from her fingers and brushing the concrete.  She
should have been pooped but was wide awake, her adrenaline flowing like
white-water rapids.

Sheila wasn't asleep.  She answered the doorbell in shortie pajamas
with a paperback novel in her hand.

The two women embraced in the foyer, then Sheila led Sharon by the hand
into the living room and sat her down on the sofa.

"I've been studying this situation," Sheila said.

Sharon wasn't in the mood to stall around.

"So have I. Where's Melanie?"

"Not until you hear me out."

"I have heard you out, Sheila, over long distance.

Look, it's my child.  I'm not going to confront her, bawl her out or
anything.  My little girl needs me.  I'm here.  So where is she?"

Sheila sank down onto an ottoman.

"You've got to give me credit for giving you more credit.  I know you,
and you're not going to fly into her like Mommy Dearest.  But, gentle
as you're going to be, you can cause serious psychological harm if you
aren't careful."

"By giving her the benefit of my own experience?

I'd think that would--" "By not giving her a chance to open up," Sheila
said.

"By telling her what you know instead of letting her tell you what she
wants you to know.  Melanie is a whole lot more mature than you give
her credit for being, just like Trish is older than I'd like to
believe.

She's had a sexual experience that's been less than gratifying.  If you
don't want her to spend the next few years cringing in fright every
time a male comes near her, you have to approach the subject in a
certain way."

"You're saying I shouldn't even bring up the fact that, oh, by the way,
Sheila says you were A.W.O.L. the other night?"

"I'm saying more than that.  I haven't even told her you were coming.
Instead of jerking her out of bed in the middle of the night to demand
an explanation of why she sneaked out of the house, pretend in the
morning you're only here to surprise her.  Trust me, Sharon.  She won't
be able to keep from asking if you know about the over-the-fence
episode.  Say that you do, but don't act as if it's all that big of a
deal.  She'll tell you more, believe me.  She wants to know what you
think of her, even if she doesn't act as if she does."  Sheila got up,
came over, and gently touched Sharon on the shoulder.

"It's the way I earn my living, and you're more important to me than
any freaking patient.  What you do in the next twelve hours will affect
your relationship with Melanie for the rest of your life.  Don't screw
it up, Sharon.  I'd be less than a friend if I allowed you to."

Sharon listened to Sheila's instructions on how to deal with Melanie
for an hour or so, then accepted the invitation to sleep on the couch.
She traded her cocktail dress and fur for loaner shorts and T, then
tossed and turned on the sofa until after 6 a.m. Finally she abandoned
all hope of sleep and went in the kitchen, where Sheila kept her coffee
and her bread in the fridge.  Sharon fixed a steaming pot and used the
pop up toaster.  She brought in the newspaper and scanned the headlines
as she added Half "N Half to her coffee and spread jam on crispy
toasted wheat bread.  The Dallas Morning News featured Will John
Benedict's arrest in Washington in front-page screaming headlines, and
fronting the story was a picture of Sharon and Russ conferring as the
police led their client out of the Kennedy Center lobby.  She scanned
the article, found no mention of her leaving town even as the cops
toted Will John off to jail, then went on to the Arts and Entertainment
section.  Mindless drivel, she thought, escapist reading to dodge
reality.  She was in the midst of a piece about Matthew McConaughey
when Melanie came in from the bedroom.

First glimpse of her daughter told Sharon all she needed to know.
Melanie never climbed out of bed this early, never, never, never, and
normally had to be rousted for school with the aid of a howitzer.  She
hadn't seen her mother as yet, and entered the kitchen as if in a
trance.  The puffiness under Melanie's eyes said that she hadn't slept
a wink, and her expression was one of total despair.  She was
bare-legged in panties and a T, and her hair was in pillow-matted
clumps.

Her cheeks were streaked with dried tears, and she was sniffling. There
was an empty feeling in the pit of Sharon's stomach and a sudden ache
in her throat.  As Melanie's gaze focused on her mom, the teenager
froze stock-still.  She said, "What are you .. . ?"

Sharon forced a smile of greeting and made her tone cheery and light.

"We had a break in the action, and I thought I'd zip home so we could
spend some time together."  She stood from the table and opened her
arms.

Melanie hesitated, then came forward and permitted a brief hug.  She
kept her face averted, watching the opening between the kitchen and den
as she said, "The news last night said the congressman went to jail."

Sharon exerted her facial muscles and broadened her grin; feigned
happiness required more effort than she would have believed.

"Which leaves little for Mom to do until his bail hearing," she said,
"which isn't until Monday."  She didn't add that she was uncertain as
to whether she'd return for the bond hearing or have anything else to
do with the case.  Or practice law any longer, or do anything more to
separate herself from her child until Melanie reached adulthood.

Sharon chided gently.

"Come on, Melanie, be glad to see me.  I'm certainly glad to see
you."

Melanie's expression remained vacant.

"It's just that, it's a surprise is all."

Sharon walked to the fridge, stopped, and turned.

"Are you hungry?"

Melanie sat at the breakfast table and folded her hands.

"Not really."

"Of course you're not.  You just charged into the kitchen at the crack
of dawn for the exercise."  Sharon opened the refrigerator; cool air
wafted from inside and touched her cheek.

"How would you like your eggs?"

Melanie's eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Have you been talking to Sheila?"

Sharon faced away from Melanie, bending to look inside the fridge, and
allowed her features to twist in sadness.

"I called Mrs.  Winston last night, to tell her I was coming home, and
also said I wanted to surprise you."  She kept her tone airy.

"Why, is there something that Mrs.  Winston should be telling me?"  She
looked at her daughter over her shoulder.

Melanie hugged herself and stiffened her posture.

"So you just flew in from Washington so we could buddy around together.
Sure, Mom."

Sharon walked thoughtfully and slowly back to the table.  She sat
catty-cornered from Melanie and leaned close to her.  Softly, Sharon
said, "Hear me out, Melanie.

Christmas is coming, and spending time with you is the most important
thing in the world.  And that's why I came.  Today we can shop, or do
anything you want to do."

Melanie's look was doubtful.

"It's a school day."

Sharon rested her chin on her lightly clenched fist.

"So it is.  And a good day for you to play hooky, right?"  She glanced
toward the front of the house.

"Come on, let's go home.  Just a mother-daughter day.

We haven't had one of those in a while, have we now?"

They crept out of the house without waking Sheila and Trish, and walked
the block and a half home in silence, hand in hand.  Sharon was
barefoot and carried her cocktail dress and jacket over her arm with
her shoes dangling from her fingers.  Melanie had slipped on jean
cutoffs along with blue running shoes, and wore no socks.  The sidewalk
was damp from the mist, but Sharon ignored the wetness on the soles of
her feet.  As they turned up their driveway, Sharon put her arm
protectively around Melanie's shoulders.  Melanie offered a sharp
glance and, teen like withdrew from her mother for an instant.  Then
she laid her head softly against Sharon's breastbone and allowed
herself to be led.  By the time they reached the front door, Melanie
was sniffling.

Commander was beside himself.  As Sharon and Melanie came out on the
porch, the shepherd leaped and whined and did his damnedest to lick
both of his masters' faces at once.  Something about a dog, Sharon
thought, no matter what one's problems, real or imagined, might be, an
animal can make things right if only for a little while.  Melanie
wrapped her arms around Commander's thick neck and buried her face in
his fur.

They played keep-away from the shepherd for a few minutes, throwing a
tennis ball back and forth between them while Commander darted to and
fro with his tongue lolling, his gaze riveted on the ball and his tail
thrashing, but Melanie's heart wasn't in the game.

Where she normally bubbled with fun at the prospect of playing with
Commander, today her movements were listless.  Sharon caught the tennis
ball, went over and sat on the porch and offered the prize to the
shepherd.  Commander stretched out on the redwood, let the tennis ball
rest between his forepaws, and watched Sharon expectantly.  Melanie
drooped over and plopped down on the chaise.

Mother and daughter sat in silence, with Commander's panting the only
noise on the porch.

Finally, Melanie said, "Mom, did ... ?"  And trailed off, staring
vacantly into the yard.

Sharon leaned back in her deck chair and said nothing.

Don't inquire, Sheila had told her.  Let the child come to you.

Melanie sucked in breath.

"You know about the other night, don't you?"

Sheila hadn't covered this particular situation.  Sharon winged it.

"I'm not sure if I do, sweetheart," she said tenderly.

"Which night?"

Melanie showed a hint of petulance.

"Oh, Mom, you know.  When I left without permission.  Come on, Sheila
told you all about it."

Sharon thought.  Don't lose her.  She said, "She mentioned it.  We
won't let it mess up our time together, unless you want to discuss
it."

Melanie blinked, surprised.

"I thought you'd bawl me out."

"I'm not happy about you sneaking out, if that's what you mean.  But
I'm not going to dwell on it.

Getting caught wasn't in the plan, huh?"  Sharon smiled, as if she saw
humor in the incident.

"It's not funny," Melanie snapped.

"I didn't say it was.  But Mrs.  Winston and I have been teenagers.
Let's say, we understand better than you think we do."

Melanie stiffened in interest.

"You mean, you snuck out when you were a little .. . when you were my
age?"

Sharon didn't feel comfortable confessing the sins of her youth.  Not
all of them at any rate, not by a long shot.  She hesitated before
saying, "I may have thought about it.  We all make mistakes.  Luckily
none of mine were terminal."

"What happened to me could have been pretty serious."

"I didn't say it wasn't serious.  But you're here, alive and well."

Melanie averted her gaze.

"I don't know if I'm well or not."

Sharon closed her mouth and sat forward in a listening attitude.

"I was with a boy," Melanie said.

Sharon continued to watch, not saying anything.

"An older boy," Melanie said.

"In a car."  She waited for her mother's reaction, her expression
saying.  Oh, boy, here it comes.

Sheila's warning had been: Under no circumstances should you demand to
know the boy's name.  Sharon had heard of women who really lost it at
times like this, confronted the boy, the boy's parents, made every kind
of hellish scene.  Best way in the world, Sheila had said, to cause
your daughter to never again confide in you.  Sharon slid a hand under
her hip.  Though her fingernails dug painfully into the fabric of her
chair, she kept her voice calm.

"It goes without saying that a boy was involved."

Melanie's eyebrows lifted.

Sharon said, "Sweetheart, there are umpteen million teenage girls in
this country who do things that they don't want their parents knowing
about.  Most of these things have to do with boys.  If you'd stop
looking at me as the police instead of someone who wants to help you,
this will go a lot better for both of us."

Melanie looked as if she couldn't believe her ears.

"You're not mad at me?"

Commander had scootched up closer to Sharon's chair.  She leaned over
and scratched the shepherd between the ears as she said to Melanie, "Of
course not.

Nor am I disappointed, nor do I feel that I must have failed you in
some way."  Her vision blurred.  She couldn't help it.  She said,
"Certain things are part of growing up.  My best gift to you now will
be, if I can keep you from making mistakes that will haunt you for
life."

Melanie's mouth twisted.

"Oh, Mom.  He made me ..."

Sharon chewed her lower lip.  She despised this boy,

whoever he was.  Hated the little bastard.  She said softly, "Look, I'm
not going to inquire about the details.

If you want to tell me, sure.  But we all have inner battles to fight.
How much you want to share is up to you."  She swiveled around, making
room, and patted the chair beside her.

"Come on, sweetheart, sit over here."

Melanie rose, her movements wooden, and sat with her back touching
Sharon's arm.

Sharon reached with both hands to massage her daughter's shoulders.

"Remember when you were little and I used to do this?"

Melanie lowered her head.  Her neck was long, elegant, beautiful.  A
wonder, Sharon thought, that Rob and I could produce a child so
perfect.  Melanie uttered a sob.

"It hurt.  Mom.  God, it .. ."

Sharon pictured an identical experience in her own life.  Hurt?  You
bet it had.  She threw her arms around Melanie's neck and hugged her
from behind.  She kissed her daughter's cheek as Melanie's shoulders
heaved.  Sharon said, "Let's shower and change, Melanie.

Eat breakfast in a restaurant, go shopping.  Take in a movie together."
She stood and stepped toward the house.

"Come on, sweetheart.  Hold your chin up and have a look at the world.
Last one dressed is a rotten egg."

They dallied through Saks, Foley's, and Barney's New York without
buying anything, then went to see Babe: Pig in the City at AMC's
Preston Forest Twelve.

For once Melanie didn't flounce into her seat, mumbling that this was a
movie for kids and that she was plenty old enough to deal with R-rated.
Sharon thought that the picture was out of this world and, during one
of the cuter scenes, reached over and squeezed Melanie's hand.  It
thrilled her that Melanie was grinning from ear to ear in the darkness
of the theater.

Later they had Frappuccinos at Starbuck's on Oak Lawn Avenue, and
watched through the coffee shop's rear window as traffic whizzed back
and forth on Turtle Creek Boulevard.  Sharon wanted to ask Melanie
about protection--God, the effect it could have on Melanie's life to
become pregnant at her age--but didn't know how to approach the subject
gently.  The whole thing was such a delicate balance, the difference
between offering loving advice and sticking her nose in where it had no
business being.  When Sharon had been in high school' and had feared
being pregnant herself, her own mother had handled the situation badly,
screaming and throwing tearful fits, and Sharon had gone on a guilt
trip that extended to this very day.

Not with my own child, Sharon thought.  She watched Melanie's profile,
and followed her daughter's gaze as a Rolls cruised down Turtle Creek
in the direction of Cedar Springs.

Finally Melanie said, as if reading her mother's mind, "It wasn't all
Jacob's fault.  It was as much mine as his."

Jacob, Sharon thought.  The boy.  The man-boy, taking advantage of
Melanie's inexperience.  Sharon despised him.  Hated his freaking guts,
even though she'd never met him.  She said nothing.

"I sort of led him on," Melanie said.

Sharon was mute for an instant.  God, she couldn't sit there like a
rock.  She managed, "You mean, intentionally led him on?"

Melanie's features set themselves in a mature look, that of a woman
about to confess her transgressions.

"I didn't start out to lead him on.  I planned to go through with it.
Mom.  I meant to let him do it to me, and I told him that's what I
wanted before he came over."

Sharon hated the words.  Do it.  Do it, much more to the point than the
expressions of her own teen hood such as "going all the way," which
sounded as ridiculous now as twenty years ago.  She said, "But when it
came down to it, you changed your mind?"

Melanie vigorously shook her head.

"No.  I chickened out is more like it.  I told him over the phone that
I was ready.  He thought that was the reason I went out in the car with
him.  By the time I tried to back out, Jacob was .. . you know, too
worked up to stop.  It wasn't his fault.  Mom.  Later he told me how
sorry he was."

I'll just bet the little bastard was sorry, Sharon thought.  Her smile
of understanding felt frozen on her face.  She said, "Melanie, did you
.. . ?"

Melanie leaned back in relief, having gotten things off her chest.  Her
expression wasn't near as tragic as before, as if she enjoyed her
mother's discomfort.

Which would have been maddening as all get-out, if it hadn't been
reminiscent of Sharon's own attitude at Melanie's age.  Shocking adults
and watching their reactions had been the trip of all trips.

Sharon stammered uncomfortably, "Did he ... ?"

Melanie's chin tilted in understanding.

"I'm not going to get pregnant, if that's what you're worried about."
Her tone of voice was suddenly professional, as if she were the mother
and Sharon the child.

Which is pretty much the norm these days, Sharon thought, the kids
growing up at a rate that their parents couldn't have imagined.  She's
educating me, Sharon thought, holding my hand and leading me down the
path to understanding.  She said docilely, "He brought protection,
then."

Melanie heaved a sigh.

"No, Mom.  I did.  Trish knows a guy who works in a pharmacy after
school."

Even as relief flooded over her, Sharon had a rush of anger.  Melanie
had now turned things around and placed her mother on the defensive.
She's the reincarnation of me at her age.  Sharon thought, which made
the whole thing even more frustrating.  She wondered how Sheila would
feel about Irish's role in helping Melanie lose her virginity. Probably
Sheila will take it a whole lot better than I am, Sharon thought. 
During Sharon's own adolescence, girls didn't confide in each other
that they were considering having sex.  Furthermore, once the deed was
done, wild horses couldn't have drug the secret from their lips.  Boys
had liked to brag in those days, that much hadn't changed, but the idea
that girls now openly discussed what once was taboo was a bit much to
cope with.  Sharon assumed a confidential tone.

"Now that it's over, how do you feel about it?"

Melanie shrugged.

"It hurt a lot.  I wish I hadn't let it go that far.  Aside from that,
I don't know that it's all that big of a deal."

Not a big deal?  Sharon thought.  She watched Melanie.

The child's lower lip quivered.  Melanie talked a good game, but in
truth she was grief-stricken.  Somehow Sharon had to show her daughter
that it wasn't the end of the world.  That no one's life was ruined,
that Melanie had merely experienced another turn in the road to
adulthood.  One helluva sharp turn, though, more like Dead Man's Curve.
Sharon pretended not to notice Melanie's poorly hidden grief.  She
said, "Well, if you have any questions, I'm here for you."

Melanie relaxed in appreciation.

"I know you are.

And thanks.  If I think of anything, it'll be cool to have you clue me
in."

Melanie kept her composure for longer than Sharon expected.  They
locked gazes for an instant, Melanie's tough expression dissolving as
Sharon opened her arms.

Melanie bent near, buried her face in Sharon's shoulder, and sobbed for
all she was worth.

"Let it out, sweetheart," Sharon said softly.

"Best thing in the world for you."

Melanie raised her face, her tear-streaked skin glistening as she
looked around the restaurant.

"People are watching.  Mom."

Sharon put her arms around her daughter's neck and hugged her
tightly.

"Know something, precious?"

Sharon said.

"I don't give a damn if they are."

They came home around five-thirty, with winter dusk fading into
darkness.  The phone-message light blink-blinked like a distress signal
at sea.  Melanie went gloomily off to change while Sharon punched the
playback button, and flopped down on the sofa to listen.

There were twelve messages in all.  Sharon quickly fast-forwarded
through the media calls--nine of them, including those from Andy Wade
at the Dallas Morning News, the National Enquirer, the Globe, and a
woman from CNN--and concentrated on the SOSs from Russ.  He'd called
three times, and there was real stress in his tone.  Sharon drummed her
fingers in guilt.

Russ was like a father to her, or more to the point, like a big brother
intent on keeping all the bullies away.  Now she was letting him down.
She punched in the D.C. area code, hesitated while she fished for her
handwritten phone directory, called the State Plaza Hotel, and asked
for Mr.  Black's room.  He answered on the second ring.

"It's me, boss," she.  said, settling back.

"Returning your call."

"Calls, plural.  An' don't play like you didn' get my messages before
now.  What's got into you, girl?"

Sharon felt like crying.

"A lot has gotten into me.

But know that I just walked in, and that all three of your calls were
on the machine.  I haven't been ducking you.  I've just been out."

"Our client'll be glad to know that, sittin' in jail."

Sharon looked into the dining room, at the Christmas tree she'd
decorated alone on the day before she'd gone to Washington.  The
stepladder on which Sharon had raised on tiptoes to affix the star was
right where she'd left it.  Visible past the dining room in the
kitchen, her sterling silver punch bowl was upended by the sink in
draining position.  The bowl was exactly where it had been since Sharon
had poured the punch down the drain after Melanie had flounced out of
the house.  Sharon winced.  The whole thing had been an ugly scene. She
said into the phone, "Sometimes there are more important things than
clients."

"Tell that to Paul an' Mattie Ruth.  They're fit to be tied."

She came within an inch of telling Russ how little she cared about the
Benedicts' feelings, particularly Paul Benedict's, but instead said
softly, "Russ, I can't tell you how sorry I am to let you down."

"Then get yourself back here and get to work.

These reporters are drivin' me crazy."

Sharon glanced toward the answering machine.

"They've been trying to do the same to me."  She made her tone
apologetic.

"You know I'd never leave you in the lurch barring a national
emergency.  It's Melanie.  I have to be with her.  Whether I can come
back to D.C."  or when, I just can't say right now."

"The child injured?"  Russ's tone was suddenly sympathetic and
caring.

Which made it even harder for Sharon to say, "Not physically.  It's a
girl thing, boss.  I have to help her get through a crisis. Everybody's
got their priorities.

The nation probably wouldn't understand this, but compared with
Melanie's future.  Will John Benedict's problems don't amount to a hill
of beans to me."

Static sounded over the line as Russ paused for a beat of five. Finally
he said, "I guess I understand."

"It's wonderful of you to say so, even if you don't.

Look, boss, I know how tough this is going to be on you."  She lowered
her gaze to her lap.

"If you'd like to take someone else on as second chair in the case,
I'll step aside.  At this rate I may have to anyway.  I need to spend
more time at home."

There was more silence.  Finally Black said incredulously, "You'd quit
me for good?"

Sharon was conscious of movement in the room, a presence behind her.
She turned as Melanie stepped down from the hall into the living room.
Melanie had changed into a pair of cutoffs.

Sharon said with a catch in her voice, "Of course I wouldn't quit you
cold, not unless you wanted me to.

I'm thinking of you, not myself.  It's just that, you're on a
complicated case up there and need all the help you can get.  Help I
can't offer right now.  I'm sorry, Russ."

Black cleared his throat.

"I'm not goin' off halfcocked on the spur of the moment.  Hell, girl, I
can handle things for a coupla days.  They're not gonna consider bail
for our man until Monday anyhow."

"Nice of you to give me a window.  But I don't see how I can be
finished here by then."  Sharon watched her daughter sit on the sofa
across the room.

"I'll just have to let you know."

"Let's don't fly off the handle an' be makin' a decision this big, not
without takin' the weekend," Black said.

"Call me Sunday night."  After a pause, he then said, "I want you in my
corner, girl.  I've had assistants over the years, but none as ...
well, you know what I'm sayin'."

"I do know," Sharon said gently, "And I will think hard on it.  That
you can count on.  Thanks, boss."  She hung up and looked sadly at the
phone.

"Was that Mr.  Black?"  Melanie sat upright in interest, her gaze
riveted on her mother.

Sharon shrugged.

"Yes, sweetheart.  It was him in person."

Melanie's eyes grew big and round.

"You're not thinking about quitting your job."

"Not quitting completely.  Just cutting back on my schedule so we can
spend more time together.  Wouldn't you like that?"

Melanie seemed thoughtful.

"More time would be cool.  But all of the time?"

Sharon laughed in spite of the seriousness of the situation.

"You'd still have time for your friends, sweetheart.  I don't plan to
smother you."

"You know I wondered before I ... did what I did, you know, with Jacob,
how much different I was going to feel.  It's surprising.  Mom, but I
don't feel much different at all.  I'm still the same kid."

Not quite, Sharon thought sadly.  Something about innocence lost.
Melanie would never be quite the same again.  Sharon said, "It's
something to think about, the changes.  But how does that affect
whether I'm going to quit my job or not?"

The sudden maturity in Melanie's look was stunning.

"I don't think it does affect you.  But it's going to affect me a
lot."

Sharon's mouth tightened.

"Look, I don't want you to feel I'm going to act like a warden.  I'm
just going to be here for you more."

"That's not it at all.  I know whatever you do will be for me.  Mom.  I
don't act like I know that sometimes, but I do.  It's just that, having
a mother that's sort of famous, well, I like that.  Gives me something
for the other kids to be jealous of."

Sharon felt flattered, but apprehensive as well.

"A

lot of people would call it more like infamous.  Lots of the causes I
have to take up aren't popular with everyone by a long shot."

"Oh, I know it," Melanie said.

"That's even cooler.

Like these kids might say, hearing it from their parents, how can your
mom sleep at night when she's defending this crook or that crook?  That
gives me a chance to say to those kids, you don't know what you're
talking about."

Sharon supposed that Melanie and her friends discussed their parents a
lot.  During Sharon's own teen hood most of the remarks about mothers
and dads hadn't been particularly complimentary.  The idea that her
child would defend her to other kids gave Sharon goose bumps.  She
said, "I'll agree you might lose that one little edge.  But I think
having a parent to lean on a hundred percent of the time might more
than make up the difference."

Melanie looked at her knees.

"I'm sorry.  Mom, but I guess I'd feel more like you were around to
keep an eye on me.  Like you didn't trust me."

Sharon took the last remark with a grain of salt.

"You don't trust me," was a prime ploy for teenagers up to no good, and
had been since the beginning of time.

"Trust wouldn't have anything to do with it, sweetheart," Sharon
said.

"I'd feel like it did, even if it didn't," Melanie said.

"Besides, Mr.  Black needs your help.  I don't want you to desert him.
Mom."

Oh, Jesus God, Sharon thought.

"I don't want to, either, Melanie."

"I'm proud of you, that you're my mother.  I'd like to be with you
more, but I don't want you to stop doing what you do.  I'd feel my
whole life like, I'd ruined something for you."

Sharon felt tears coming on.  She sat beside Melanie on the sofa and
put her arm around her daughter's shoulders.  She supposed that in the
near future there'd be a lot of soul-searching for both of them.

Melanie said, "Go on back to Washington, Mom.

I'll be fine.  And I give you my word, Sheila won't have any more
trouble with me."

Sharon crossed her ankles on the coffee table, leaned back against the
cushions, and looked at the ceiling.

"I don't think she will, either, sweetheart.  It's just that, at the
moment, I don't know what it is I'm going to do."


But Sharon should have known all along what she was going to do, and
realized as much, as two days after New Year's, she stood at Reagan
National and waited for a flight from L.A. to arrive.  It was Melanie
who'd made up her mother's mind during the two intimate weeks they'd
spent together, the child showing knowledge far beyond her years.
Having absentee parents for much of the time would be hard on an
adolescent, but not as hard as knowing, until her dying day, that she'd
held back her mother's career.

Without Sheila in the wings, ready and willing to act as surrogate mom
and taxi service, Sharon never could have continued in the practice of
long-distance law.

God love Sheila to death, Sharon thought as she paced back and forth
beyond the security gates, peering occasionally down the walkways.
There was a sign over the metal detectors reading, no un ticketed
passengers beyond this point.  That's a marvelous skyjacker deterrent,
Sharon thought, but it sure is a pain in the p'toot for non terrorists
who are meeting people from out of town.  There were forty or fifty

waiting along with Sharon, men in business suits and one tired y
looking woman carrying an infant seat, all shuffling their feet in
irritation.  Sharon didn't blame them for being upset; she was more
than a little pod herself.

She raised herself on the balls of her feet and peered toward the
arrival gates.  Lyndon Gray and Olivia Welton approached at a fast
clip, side by side.

At first glance the Brits looked like a London gentleman accompanied by
his prim and proper country cousin, but Sharon knew better.  Lyndon
Gray was a tall brunette with the shoulders of a linebacker and the
watchful gaze of a jungle cat, his eyes darting back and forth as he
took in his surroundings, memorizing, categorizing.  Even as Sharon
smiled and waved, she noted that Gray's craggy features seemed just a
hair older and wiser than when she'd first met him only a few months
ago in California.  Gray had been acting as chauffeur/cook/bodyguard to
Daria Cowan and, as Darla's defense had progressed.  Gray's Oriental
partner Benny Yadaka had proved to be one of the bad guys.  Sharon
doubted if Lyndon Gray would ever be so fooled again.  His social
graces and impeccable manners aside.  Gray looked exactly like what he
was, a former British Secret Service agent in the investigation and
protection business.  Olivia Welton however, would stump the What's My
Line?  panel into conniptions.

She was dressed like a middle-aged nanny, complete with plum-colored
pleated skirt and vest to match, spotless white blouse and black bow
tie, her gray hair center-parted with sidecar bangs.  A huge leather
purse dangled by a strap around Mrs.  Welton's forearm, and a
near-angelic smile was plastered on her face.  The nanny outfit, Sharon
knew, disguised a lithe and muscular body toned by daily workouts, and
the pleasant matronly expression was the same as Mrs.  Welton would
display while breaking a bad guy's arm.

The couple's luggage would contain the proper dress for any occasion in
addition to a number of firearms.

Lyndon Gray's weapon of choice was a 9mm Ruger, while Mrs.  Welton
carried a .45 with a kick like a Shetland, and the pair traveled with a
couple of palm-sized derringers as well.  Gray was partial to nylon
shoulder rigs while Olivia Welton bolstered her weapons near the small
of her back.  Mrs.  Welton was fluent in three languages, Lyndon Gray
in four.  Gray followed Welton past the metal detectors in courtly
fashion.  The couple approached, and Sharon held out both hands.

Gray took one of Sharon's hands while Welton gripped the other.  Gray
said, "A pleasure as always, Miss Hays."

Sharon felt as if a weight had lifted.

"Not near the pleasure it is for me to see you two.  I didn't think
Daria would spare you."

"Nor did I."  Gray fell in step with Welton, with Sharon in the middle,
and the trio started down the concourse toward the baggage claim.  Gray
continued, "Normally she wouldn't, I fancy, but when Miss Cowan learned
that the person requesting our assistance was you .. ."

Sharon quickened her pace.  God, like keeping up with a couple of speed
walkers  She said, slightly breathlessly, "I'm in Darla's debt,
then."

Gray chuckled.

"I think Miss Cowan feels it's the other way around.  She owes you her
freedom."

"I don't know that that's a proper statement."

Sharon passed under a sign and led the way onto the down escalator.

"How is Dada making out?"

Gray ushered Welton onto the moving staircase and brought up the rear.
Olivia Welton's expression was suddenly serious.

"Miss Cowan's as well as can be expected.  It may take years for the
effects of what she went through to completely wear off.  Her being
such a public figure doesn't help."

Sharon looked up over her shoulder.

"It makes things tougher.  You should know up front, I'm afraid we've
got a similar situation here with all the publicity."

Gray and Welton exchanged a glance.  Mrs.  Welton's angelic smile
returned.

"So we've heard.  Miss Hays," she said.

"And matters such as this are our specialty.  Lyndon and I have
discussed our roles thoroughly.

And as for the media's hindrance of the congressman's defense, I can
safely say you should fear no more."

Sharon had rented a blue Lincoln Town Car, which she'd left in the
short-term parking near the terminal exit.  She approached the rear of
the vehicle with Gray on her left, Mrs.  Welton on her right, and a
skycap pulling a luggage cart along behind them.  Sharon used the key
to open the rear compartment, and the trio stood back while the skycap
thunked the Brits' gear aboard--two medium-sized leather suitcases
along with a steamer trunk large enough to hold a dead body or two.
When it came time for the skycap to hoist the trunk from the cart, he
tugged and wheezed like a cardiac patient.  Lyndon Gray smiled grimly
and bent to lend a hand.  The temperature was in the twenties, the sky
overcast.  Sharon's breath fogged in the cold.

Mrs.  Welton leaned near and said softly, "Is everything all right with
you?"

Sharon started.

"Why, yes.  Why wouldn't it ... ?"

"You seemed more concerned than normal.  How is young Miss Hays?"

"Melanie?"

Olivia Welton nodded.

"Lovely child."  In California, Mrs.  Welton had taken Melanie on a
studio tour, and the pair had become thick as thieves.

One corner of Sharon's mouth bunched.

"I don't think things have ever been better between Melanie and me
since the day she was born."

"That's nice," Mrs.  Welton said, looking as if she knew better, then
changed to a more businesslike tone.

"Will we be meeting.  the congressman today?"

Sharon briefly shook her head.

"Ever since Will John made bail he's been laying low.  Newspeople
surround his condo and he can hardly stick his head outside.

I thought we could meet with Russ and plan some strategy.  Will John's
arraignment is tomorrow, and there'll be plenty of time for you to talk
to him after the hearing."

"How's the atmosphere around your hotel?"

Sharon scratched her jaw.

"The same as at the congressman's condo, but we're coping.  To pick up
this rental car I ducked out the back way and walked two blocks to a
hotel up the street.  Gave them the slip for the time being, but I
suspect they'll be out in force by the time we return."


Lyndon Gray slammed the trunk lid, tipped the sky y cap, and turned to
the two women as the skycap tugged the cart back to the terminal.  Gray
said jovially, "I suppose we're ready to roll, ladies."

Sharon walked to the driver's door with the keys dangling from her
hand.  Her fingers were freezing.

Gray followed her up and reached for the keys.

"Allow me, miss."

Sharon stopped in her tracks, surprised.

"I thought, since I know the way ..."

Gray smiled, took the keys, and held the rear door open like Jeeves the
butler.

"I think I can get us there."

Sharon stepped toward the car.

"You know Washington?"

"Was here a year and a half, a-servin' of 'er Majesty the Queen. During
Nixon's time.  The British government had more than a passing interest
in Watergate happenings.  I became quite familiar with keeping away
from the local press then."  He took Sharon's arm and ushered her into
the car.

"Not to fret, mum.

When it comes to dodging newsies, I know roads in this town that angels
fear to tread."

Lyndon Gray gazed thoughtfully out the window.

"I don't suppose you've considered a plea bargain."

Russell Black was seated on the edge of the bed.  He leaned forward and
rested his forearms on his thighs.

"Hell's bells, o' course we have.  Our client says he didn' do it.
We're obligated to take his position."

"Seems an incredibly weak position.  Can we verify the part of his
story where he goes out for drugs and sex toys?"

"That much, yeah.  At least part of it.  The sex shop employee
remembers him.  The drug dealer hadn' surfaced."

"And might not.  And even if he comes forward, I've heard nothing that
would have prevented your client from killing the young lady after he
returned to the condo."

Sharon stood beside Mrs.  Welton at the window, looking down.  Far
below on E Street, two mobile news units hugged the curb while
cameramen and reporters milled about, huddled over, keeping as warm as
possible.  The area around Will John's condo in Georgetown was even
worse; one couldn't drive within two blocks of the place without
running into the media.  Lyndon Gray had parked the Lincoln over at the
Sate Department, and had led the women into the hotel basement through
a tunnel that Sharon hadn't even known existed.  Less than two hours in
town, Gray and Welton were already earning their keep.

Even Russ was showing respect, and there'd been no evidence of his
usual snappish ness with private investigators.

Anthony Gear, Black's main man back in Dallas, had to go through a
grilling session with Russ on every freaking thing.  With Lyndon Gray
and Olivia Welton, Sharon suspected that Black would be more inclined
to take the British couple's word.

Gray turned from the window and sank down in a cushioned chair snugged
up to a table.  He folded his hands on the polished surface.

"We can do all the obvious things, Mr.  Black.  Try to dig dirt on the
young lady, though besmirching someone's character isn't the most
tasteful of chores.  But even should she turn out to be the tart of the
century, I don't see that excuses her murder."

"We should canvass the condo neighborhood."

Olivia Welton spoke softly and carefully, never taking her gaze from
the street below.

There was a pause as the two men looked at Welton, at the slim straight
back, the pleated folds of her skirt hanging down.  Sharon tilted her
head in curiosity.

Welton turned to face the room, her back to the glass.

"Your client says that he left the condo and returned to find the girl
murdered in bed.  If the story's true, someone may have seen the killer
coming or going."

"Or may have spied the congressman through the window," Gray said,
"raising a knife over his head."

Welton showed the tiniest bit of irritation.

"Those would be witnesses whom we don't need, then, wouldn't they?  Do
you have a better idea?"

"Not at present," Gray said.

"As respects the victim's activities, I suppose we should begin with
the roommate.  I doubt she'll be eager to speak with us."

"I may have to mother her a bit."  Welton's lips spread slowly into a
smile.

"You do that well," Gray said, rising, "With everyone.

We'll get what we can, Mr.  Black.  Of course it's up to you and Miss
Hays to determine what is and isn't admissible in court."

Sharon and Russ exchanged a look.  Gray sat back down and waited
expectantly.  Mrs.  Welton leaned against the door frame and folded her
arms.  Gray said, "Am I missing something here?"

Sharon lifted, then dropped, her chin.

"I doubt you are, Mr.  Gray.  What is and isn't admissible doesn't
matter at this point."

It was Gray and Welton's turn to look at each other.

Mrs.  Welton said, "That bad?"

"Worse," Sharon said.

"With Will John Benedict insisting he didn't do it, our hands are sort
of tied.

The prosecution's case seems pretty airtight as we speak.  Under normal
circumstances I'd be asking our client to plea-bargain, but he won't
hear of it.  As of now, we simply have no defense.  Unless we can
uncover something to the effect that Will John's telling the truth,
then trial or no.  Will John's going to prison for a very long time."

Gray rubbed his forehead.

"You could have said the same thing about Miss Cowan's defense at one
time.  Miss Hays."  He smiled hopefully.

"Darkest before the dawn, what?"

"With one exception," Sharon said.

"I believed in Daria from day one.  In Will John Benedict's case, I'm
not really sure."  She checked her watch.

"We desperately need inspiration.  Other than our client's word, we've
seen nothing pointing evidence in our direction.

While you all are nosing around, I'm going to see a guy.  I don't know
if he'll make a good witness, whether he's reliable, or anything about
him other than what I've been told.  But he may be the only grabbable
straw that we have."

Mark C. Potter was a dull-looking man in a bland office with a view of
the beltway.  He wore a white shirt, black tie, and glasses in plastic

frames.  His hair y line receded halfway back.  He offered Sharon a
vanilla wafer.  The wafer tasted bland.

"What you propose can give me real problems."

Potter touched manicured fingertips together.

Sharon tongued a piece of wafer from a jaw tooth.

"That's not my intent.  But there will be visibility for anyone
connected to this case.  It can't be avoided."

"That's the trouble.  Twenty-three years in this town, my clients
include names that everyone in the country would recognize.  Yet I've
never had my picture in the newspapers.  I survive by being anonymous."
Potter spoke with no discernible accent.

Sharon had a legal pad balanced on her thigh.  She didn't have time to
spar with this guy.  She said, "For how long did you follow Congressman
Benedict?"

Potter flashed the tiniest of smiles.

"Follow?  I prefer to say, "Kept up with his activities."

" Sharon lifted, then dropped her shoulders.

"We can use whatever terminology you want.  I just need the
particulars."

Potter squirmed in his wooden, slatted-backed swivel chair.

"I don't know as I'm comfortable discussing anything confidential."

Sharon rubbed a blank page with the end of her ballpoint.

"Oh?  Cas told me she gave you the green light."

"She did, I won't quarrel with that.  But I'm not sure that even Mrs.
Benedict has the right to disclose our business."

Sharon felt a tug of irritation.

"The confidentiality privilege belongs to the client, Mr.  Potter. Once
the client waives it, well .. ."

Potter reached inside the box and withdrew another vanilla wafer.

"I'm not a lawyer, but .. ."

"Well I am a lawyer.  And Cas Benedict has waived the right."

Potter extended the box.

"Wafer?"

Sharon jiggled her foot.

"No, thank you."

"You didn't let me finish.  Privilege matters in the courtroom only. If
Mrs.  Benedict allows it, you can subpoena me to testify, that much
legalese I understand.

But you can't force me to tell you anything right here, right now, when
I'm not under oath.  Off the witness stand the confidentiality of my
files are my own prerogative.  If you'd want to put on a witness when
you didn't know what he was going to say .. ."

Potter spread his hands.

Sharon expelled a sigh.  "louche, Mr.  Potter.  I can make trouble for
you, and you can return the favor.

Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

"Let's hope.  But sometimes in my business, conflict is unavoidable.
I'll give you an example.  Three years ago I had a case where I
followed a senator to a place where he wasn't supposed to be.  Never
mind where, the point is that the FBI was bird-dogging the guy as well,
identified me, and I had the pleasure of appearing before a
congressional committee.  I pled confidentiality.

Congress doesn't believe that anything is confidential where they're
concerned, and I spent the balance of the hearings in jail for
contempt.  I protect my files, Miss Hays.  Time in jail is temporary.
To make revelations such as they were asking would destroy my
reputation, translating to making me permanently kaput in this town."

Sharon regarded Potter with the same respect she'd show for the biggest
cockroach in history.  Doings in the nation's capital made her skin
crawl.  She said, "Let me ask you something."

Potter raised pale blond eyebrows.

"In the case you just described," Sharon said, "was the senator you
were following charged with murder?"

"No."  Potter's tone was flat, disinterested.

"And if he had been, and your testimony could have cleared him, would
you still have refused to talk about it?"

"Yes."

"I find that incredible," Sharon said.

"Find it any way you want.  Miss Hays.  Politicians come and go around
here.  I don't.  I'm permanent.  I don't risk my permanency for any
reason."

"Permanency and anonymity.  Your keys to survival, right?"

Potter showed a smile that was practically a smirk.

Five minutes alone with him, Sharon detested this guy.

She scooted her bottom forward and leaned back.

"I can't do anything about your permanency.  Your anonymity is a
different story."

Potter's expression was suddenly grim.

"I hope I'm not hearing a threat."

"You're not hearing an empty threat, sir.  Do you know Rita
Carboneau?"

"Only from afar.  I use a nickname for her, but to tell you what it is
could bring the feminist movement down on me."

"You'd be surprised how far across the room I stand from the
femi-Nazis," Sharon said.

"And I can probably fill in the blanks with regard to the nickname on
my own, thank you.  But necessity creates strange bed mates and poor
Rita's running short of dirt to dig on this case.  Do you think she'd
be interested in a private detective who's got some inside skinny he
doesn't want to reveal?"

Potter's look was calculating, without anger, just a man considering
his options.

"The truth is," Sharon said, "that I like Ms.  Carboneau even less than
you do.  But if I need her I need her.  She's a lot in the same
position you are, in that what she writes in her column isn't under
oath.  Do I need her, sir?"  She folded a page over in her legal pad
and waited.

Potter spun his chair around and looked out the window, at traffic
whizzing back and forth along the beltway.  He turned back, picked up
the box, and fished for a wafer.  Sharon held her breath, hoping that
he wouldn't offer her one.

Potter set the box down.

"If I were to, possibly, speak in hypotheticals, could we keep my name
out of it?"

"I don't think you'd have to be hypothetical, as in, suppose there was
this congressman or something.  As for keeping you out of it, I'll tell
you what I told Cas.

If you can give me names I can run down to use as witnesses, well,
sure.  If all I had was your word, then your word is what I'd have to
put on the stand."

Potter seemed thoughtful.  He stood, walked over to an upright hanging
file, and withdrew a thick folder.

He turned, retreated to sit, and thumbed through papers in the
folder.

"To help you there," he began, then cleared his throat and said, "To
give you evidence, I'd have to tell you things that Mrs.  Benedict
doesn't know."

Sharon couldn't hide her surprise.

"You mean you withhold information even from your clients?"

"Not on their case.  What's their business is just that.

But what isn't their business .. . Forget Hollywood, California, Miss
Hays; Washington, D.C."  is the infidelity capital of the world.
Ninety-nine out of a hundred of my clients are wives, though why they
want to know is beyond me, because they seldom do anything about it
once they get the goods.  I go about my business in a different manner
than you'd think.  I was a cop once, long ago.  I learned that when
there's a crime, the list of suspects is more often than not a group of
people who've previously committed the identical crime.  It works the
same way when it comes to extra-marital screwing around."

Sharon couldn't help but be fascinated.  Her gaze riveted on the file
in Potter's hands, she said, "I don't know that I follow.  That isn't
the file on the Benedict case?"

"In the manner of speaking, but it's also the file on some other cases.
Just as the same people are always robbing banks, liquor stores,
whatever, the same people make a practice of dallying with other
people's spouses.  I find that when a woman comes to me, wants me to
investigate her husband, in ninety-nine percent of the cases the other
person involved is someone who's previously been involved with someone
else's husband.  Am I making myself clear?"

Sharon sighed as realization dawned.

"I'm afraid you are, Mr.  Potter.  You keep records on women who are
prone to get involved with married men."

Potter waved a hand toward the hanging file.

"For the most part, yes.  There are a few homosexual men in my records,
but you get the drift.  So in the particular case, while I tell the
client the name of the person her husband is sleeping with, I don't
reveal the other men in that person's life.  To do so would be giving
trade secrets away.  I don't do that.  It isn't healthy from a business
sense."

Sharon pictured the file Sally Pong had given her, the photo of
Courtney Lee, the girl-and-her-dog pose.

She said, "Then that file is on .. . ?"

Potter was matter-of-fact.

"Courtney Lee, yes."

"You're saying, when Cas Benedict came to see you, that wasn't the
first time Courtney's name had come up in one of your
investigations?"

"No, it was the fifth."  Potter thumbed through the file,
flop-flop-flop, looked up, and grinned.

"Three Democrats, two Republicans.  The lady was bipartisan.

Performing for Old Glory's sake."

During Sharon's first year in New York, a date had taken her to see
Buddy Hackett at Radio City Music Hall.  She'd thought the show vulgar
and disgusting, the same feeling she now had listening to Mark C.
Potter.  She said almost spitefully, "Do you take videos, the whole
bit?"

"Most certainly.  I could arrange a private showing if you'd like."

"No, thank you," Sharon said.

"I'd want these other men's names."

"Only if you'll protect your source."

"I'm a lawyer, Mr.  Potter, not a reporter for the Globe.  What I can
offer is, you open up to me, I won't use you as a witness unless it's
absolutely necessary.

If you don't talk to me, and now, you'll be reading about yourself in
Rita Carboneau's column before the week is out.  Your choice, sir."

Potter testily brushed his lapel.

"Sounds like a blackmail threat to me."

Sharon smiled.

"Oh, it is.  Make no mistake about it."

Potter dropped all pretense of being polite.

"What is it you want, lady?  I have things to do."

Sharon nodded toward the file.

"A copy of that, for starters.  Front to back.  Then a rundown on your
activities regarding my client, from day the first to day the last.
Whereall you followed him and everything you saw."

"Everything?  That could be quite R-rated."

"I'm over seventeen," Sharon said.

"That you are."  Potter had calmed down, and Sharon wondered if his
brief show of anger had been an act.  For anyone to be in Potter's line
of work, she thought, they'd have to be immune to insult.  He dropped
his file over in front of her with a dull thump.

"It's all in there.  My notes are transcribed, not only for the
Benedict matter but for everyone with whom the young lady was involved.
There are photos.  There are dailies from the first time Mrs. Benedict
contacted me, in November, I think, up until the night Miss Lee
died."

Sharon hefted the file.  It weighed a ton.  Sleaze is heavy, Sharon
thought.  She said, "I'd like to cut through some preliminaries.
Descriptions of how you followed Will John here and there until he made
contact with Courtney, that wouldn't do me much good."

"Oh, there isn't any of that.  I had Miss Lee identified as the woman
with whom he was having an affair within an hour after Mrs.  Benedict
retained me."

Through her disgust, Sharon felt an odd admiration.

"That fast?"

"It's the way we work.  I employ one operative, a young woman who bar
tends at ... at a place where a lot of politicos hang out.  A bit heavy
in the thighs, but a telephone voice to end all voices and a knack for
making little alterations in her dialect.  When I'm retained, the first
step is to get my operative on the phone.  In front of her she has a
list of the people in those folders over there."  Potter indicated the
hanging files.

Sharon tilted her chin.

"The women who .. . ?"

"Right.  The ones with, let's say, a history around the Capitol
Building.  My operative calls the man we're investigating at his
office.  She tells the switchboard she's Jane Doe, the first name on
the list.  If the politician won't talk to Jane Doe, my operative waits
ten minutes and calls back, using a slightly different accent, only
this time she's Sally Smith, the second name.  This goes on until,
eventually, the guy comes to the phone.  Whoever he's willing to talk
to, that's the woman he's sleeping with."

"Sounds simple and efficient.  If the other woman in the case isn't
someone in your files, I suppose your work is then cut out for you."

"It would be."  Potter intertwined his fingers behind his head and
leaned back in self-satisfaction.

"But it never happens that way.  If a woman's been playing around with
a married congressman, president, whatever, she's played around before.
With someone in this town, sometime.  I have records on all these
people, Miss Hays.  Every single one."

Sharon spent the next half hour seated on Mark C. Potter's couch, going
through the file he'd built on Courtney Lee.  The folder was stuffed
with letters, photos, written reports, and videocassettes.  Sharon
examined each item in turn, stacking the materials she wanted to copy
or keep on her left, piling the discards on her right.

As she worked she was vaguely conscious of Potter going about his
business.  Or lack of business, since the detective spent most of his
time with his feet on his desk, staring out the window.  He had two
phones, one the standard office setup complete with two lines and a
hold button, the other a cell that he kept on his desk beside a
paperweight.  Potter let his voice mail take all incoming calls over
his main line.  Each time the cellphone brrred, however, he would grab
the handset, turn his back, and speak in hushed tones into the
mouthpiece.  He had two such conversations while Sharon worked on the
sofa, and during one of these he retreated to his reception area and
closed the door.

Courtney had a history with a capital H, and Sharon was appalled. Jesus
Christ, the girl had only worked in Washington since June, less than
half a year before she died.  Yet here she was in Potter's smut file,
over and over.  The first entry regarding Courtney had come during the
summer, less than a month after she'd arrived in town, when she'd
turned up at a party in Arlington as a member of a threesome. The
couple with Courtney were a married southern senator in his forties and
a twenty-one-year-old White House intern.

According to Potter's report, the intern and the senator were an item
and had brought Courtney along to introduce her around.  Which hadn't
taken long; Courtney had left the party early with a junior congressman
from Hawaii.  Since the married southern senator, not the Hawaiian, had
been the target of Potter's investigation, Courtney's presence in the
report ended when she left the party; she had at that point, however,
become a part of Potter's file for future reference.

And the future hadn't been far away.  Three days later Courtney and the
Hawaiian congressman had turned up again, this time when they'd
accompanied the senator and the intern on a weekend jaunt to Atlantic
City.  All-night gambling, the works.  A parting at the airport, the
senator and the congressman catching an early Sunday shuttle back to
Reagan International, Courtney and the intern on a flight that left two
hours later and landed at Washington Baltimore

Courtney had become a regular in Potter's records after the Atlantic
City trip, complete with trysts in out-of-the-way bars and motels in
Virginia and Maryland.

Will John Benedict had entered the picture as one of Courtney's escorts
as far back as September, two months before Cas had hired Potter.  At
the time, however.  Congressman Benedict's affair with Courtney Lee had
been a mere footnote to a New York legislator's dallying with a
waitress at Hooter's.  There was another weekend trip in Courtney's
resume, this one only two weeks before her death, and this little
sojourn had been a whirlwind overnighter into Manhattan.

Once again the middle-aged southern senator, the Hawaiian guy (who
Sharon had mentally dubbed Honolulu Harry by now), and the White House
intern were involved.  On this occasion, however, the women had changed
partners.  The intern had shared a room with the Hawaiian and Courtney
had bedded down with the older man.  Sharon laid the file aside and
allowed her stomach to churn.

Sharon Hays had been there, and not that long ago.

The players had been different--actors, producers, and New York stage
show bankroll men instead of political hacks--but the
stars-in-your-eyes syndrome had been pretty much the same.  During her
first months pursuing an acting career Sharon had pulled more than one
stunt she wasn't proud of, and things had happened in the Big Apple
that she hoped to God Melanie never learned about.  Try as she might to
zero in on the seamy side of Courtney Lee, Sharon couldn't help
sympathizing.  She let her gaze fall into her lap for a moment, then
slowly looked up.  From behind his desk.  Mark C. Potter was watching
her.

He said, "Is something wrong?"

Sharon expelled breath through her nose.

"No, it's just .. . not that pretty a picture."

Potter toyed with a paperweight.

"I don't know that it's much different from many pictures I run
across."

Sharon slowly rotated her head from side to side.

"All those young girls.  Wasting their time with these .. ."

Potter rubbed his hands together.

"Consider it as what it is, a deal.  The women get what they want, a
brush with celebrity, a walk in the limelight, whatever.

The men get what they want as well.  So what's the harm?"

Spoken like a true porno dealer, Sharon thought.

She patted the stack of photos, papers, and videotapes on her left.

"I can copy these?"

Potter's look was wary.

"Only if it helps keep my name out of it."

"I think with the information here I can drum up a few witnesses,"
Sharon said.

"Which is a giant step toward keeping you anonymous.  I expect
resistance from these politicians, getting them to testify."

Potter blinked.

"Massive resistance.  As in lawyer after lawyer.  I'm glad it's your
concern and not mine."

Sharon thoughtfully poked her tongue into her inner cheek.

"For you to remain totally anonymous in this, for you to have a chance
to remain totally anonymous, there's another bump in the road."

Potter frowned.

"Which is?"

"You telling me the story of what happened on the night Courtney was
murdered.  That's the most critical information you have, according to
Cas Benedict."

Sharon indicated the piles of data by each of her hips.

"Anything about that night is pregnantly absent from all this."

"That's because I destroyed it all.  After I gave Mrs.

Benedict her copies.  I knew it was information I was better off not
having."

"So you wouldn't be dragged into the murder case, you destroyed
information helpful to the suspect?"

Potter self-importantly inflated his chest.

"That's the way I do things, take it or leave it."

Sharon sat back in wonderment.

"You're a piece of work, Mr.  Potter.  I'm sure it won't bother you a
bit for me to think so, but you are."

"Regrettably, not a skillful enough piece of work to keep it all from
coming back to haunt me.  Funny thing is, normally I wouldn't have been
working when it happened.  I charge double hours for holiday
assignments.

When Mrs.  Benedict called me from Texas to say her husband was
returning to Washington for a few days, that I should keep an eye on
him, I was packing for a trip of my own.  She almost missed me."

Well wouldn't it have been a shame if she had, Sharon thought.  She
wondered if Mark C. Potter had a mother somewhere in Hometown, U.S.A."
or if he and a bunch of other sleazos danced around a Christmas tree
fashioned from bones.  She said, "I'd like you to detail the whole
evening.  Frankly our client has described certain things.  I'd like to
see if his description jibes with yours."

Potter's eyes grew mockingly round.

"You'd doubt your client's word?  In your business, that's probably
prudent."

"What I doubt and what I don't doubt isn't relevant here, sir.  Please
tell me the story.  Sometimes I may interrupt, to move you along, but
don't leave anything out."

Potter slightly averted his gaze.

"There's not that much to tell."

"That isn't my understanding, sir," Sharon said.

"I

suspect what I'm about to hear is a story that only you can tell, which
translates to time for you on the witness stand.  Tell it anyway, Mr.
Potter.  I'm not going to let you wiggle out."

Potter sighed in resignation.

"I picked up on them at a party over in Maryland.  Drove to a house
over there, located Congressman Benedict's car and waited for him to
appear."

"That checks with Will John's story, at least so far.

But how did you know where he'd be at the time?"

Sharon asked.

"I knew from the time his wife called from Texas that eventually he'd
go to this gathering.  It's the only reason a married man would return
to Washington during the Christmas break.  For insurance I'd installed
a tracking device in his car, under the bumper.  With Mrs.  Benedict's
permission, of course.  So even if he hadn't gone to the party my
dashboard monitor would have led me to him.  Assuming he was driving
his wife's Chrysler, which according to her he would be."

"I rode in that car," Sharon said, "on the night I met with Cas."

Potter offered a mirthless smile.

"I know.  You met Mrs.  Benedict at Beggett's Pub, and she drove you to
your hotel.  My monitor was on that night as well."

Sharon leaned back, oddly impressed.

Potter continued.

"He left the party early, and took the young lady to his Georgetown
condo.  Not the spot I would have chosen, had I been him, but that's
where they went."

"Let's just say my client wasn't a veteran screwer around," Sharon
said.

"Obviously.  I, uh, observed them in the condo for an hour or two. They
spent time in the living room and then retreated to the downstairs
guest room.  That room doesn't have a window that's accessible from the
outside of the house.  Miss Hays.  I can't give you a blow-by-blow of
what occurred in there."

Deep Throat's got nothing on this guy, Sharon thought.

"I can do without one," she said.

"Rest assured I'm not in this for the titillation factor."

Potter seemed taken aback.  He wet his lips.

"The next thing that happened was odd.  They came out of the guest
room.  He was dressed, she wasn't.  She went to the door with him, and
then he left."

So far Will John's story was right-on.  Sharon said, "Left?  Where did
he go?"

"I got a good photo," Potter said, "of them at the door.  She's quite
naked in the picture."

Sharon patted the sofa in irritation.

"I've seen the picture, sir, in this stack here.  I hope you weren't so
caught up in your photography that you forgot to follow him."

"No, but almost.  His leaving caught me totally by surprise.  I was
hidden in some bushes near the front of the house, and had he taken the
Chrysler I couldn't have reached my own car in time to put a tail on
him.

But he opened the garage and went inside, which gave me time to creep
down.  the block to my Bronco."

"He took a different car?"  Sharon dropped her hand to her side.

"I wonder why he'd do that."

"As do I," Potter said.

"The only thing I know for certain is, he did.  A two-year-old Mercury,
the car he normally drives to his office.  Put me in a bind.  Miss
Hays.  You see, I had no tracking device on the Mere and had to stay in
eyesight.  There were a couple of times I thought he'd made me."

Sharon made a note to ask Will John why he'd switched cars for the trip
to the dope dealer and the sex shop.  She could now list, in addition
to the drug dealer and the smut peddler, Mark C. Potter as a witness.

Oh, terrific, Sharon thought, it's a toss-up as to which of the three
the jury will despise the most.  She said, "Where did he go?"

"First he met a guy in a bar.  They had some words."

"And exchanged some money for some cocaine," Sharon said.

"Come on, Mr.  Potter, don't tell me you're not up on the political
drug suppliers around here."

"Of course I am.  I didn't know that you were."

"Only to the extent that my client's clued me in.

Did you see Will John buying the drugs."

"I was at the front, at the bar.  I couldn't testify as to what went on
back in the booth."

"Convenient for you that you couldn't, Mr.  Potter.

Keeps you from having to testify about the drug buy.

When he and the man parted company, you kept on following him?"

"Yeah, I did.  As he was leaving the bar with me a block behind him, my
dashboard dinged."

Up to this point, Potter's story was so right-on with Will John's
description of the events that Sharon had lost focus.  It took a moment
for Potter's words to sink in.  She sat bolt upright.

"Your what did what?"

"My dashboard ... the monitor sounded.  The tracking device, you
know?"

Sharon's forehead tightened.

"I thought you said Will John had switched cars."

"Exactly my point.  My tracking device was still honed in on the
Chrysler, back at the condo.  That car was now in motion."

"You're saying that while Will John was out on a goody run, Courtney
left the condo in the other car?"

"Someone did.  I can't swear it was her, but two plus two."

"Jesus Christ," Sharon said.

"I couldn't be two places at once," Potter said, "and my assignment was
to keep up with the congressman's whereabouts, so I stuck with him.  He
went to one of these adult places."

"A sex shop, yeah.  We know about that."

"Do you know what he bought?"

"A vibrating dildo," Sharon said.

"I'm surprised he'd admit to it.  Guy seemed really embarrassed,
looking all around as he carried the sack out to his car."

"Wouldn't you be embarrassed in that situation?"

Sharon asked, then thought it over and said, "On second thought, maybe
you wouldn't.  You followed him back to the condo then.  Please tell me
you also watched him dispose of the body.  It can clear my client,
assuming the jury believes you."

Potter showed a blank look.

"Well if she was dead when he returned to the condo," Sharon said, "and
you have this photo of her bidding him good-bye as he left on his
shopping trip, then he couldn't very well have killed her, could he?"

Potter licked his lips.

"When he returned to the condo, no one was there.  Not her, no one.
Dead or alive."

Sharon was stunned speechless.

"I watched him every step, Miss Hays.  From the time he left the condo
until he returned, he was never out of my sight.  He pulled into his
carport, got out, and looked frantically around the spot where the
Chrysler had been parked.  It was gone.  Congressman Benedict ran
inside the house, came back out, and stared up and down the street.
This guy didn't know I was there and had no reason to pretend.  He was
scared out of his wits.  He charged back inside and made a phone call.
I watched him through the window.

He fumbled with the receiver, dropped it on the floor.  This guy was
not faking."

Sharon picked up the stack of papers beside her, thumbed furiously
through the pile until she located the photo of Will John leaving the
condo, a bare-assed naked Courtney Lee smiling prettily at him through
the door.  She'd sent him on this trumped-up shopping trip to get rid
of him, of that Sharon was certain, and, puppy like  Will John had
trotted off to do her bidding.

God, but Will John Benedict was a spineless .. . The longer she
practiced criminal law the more Sharon came not to believe a word her
clients told her, but Jesus Christ, this was the first time in history
a client had told lies implicating himself.  She held the picture in
her lap and dropped the rest of the papers back onto the sofa. Watching
Potter, she said, "I don't suppose we're lucky enough that you know who
he called."

Potter smiled, enjoying himself.

"I assume his father.

That's who showed up next."

Sharon's lips parted.  Seventy-five degrees inside Potter's office, she
was suddenly freezing to death.  She said, "His .. . ?"

"Paul Benedict.  Come on.  Miss Hays, I know you know him."

Sharon wondered if the expression on her face looked as stupid as she
felt.  Know him?  Know him?  Well, sure, Mr.  Potter, we were once so
close he tried to make me do the nasty with him.  Know Paul Benedict?

Are you kidding?  Why, we're old buds.

"They had quite a row," Potter said.

"Both out in the yard and inside the house.  A real dressing-down the
old man was giving him."

Sharon barely heard.  Of course Paul Benedict, Sharon Dodo, she
thought.  Will John, the nerd, had been screaming for Daddy ever since
the first time he'd fallen off his tricycle.  And Paul Benedict,
professor emeritus and all that crap, had enjoyed every minute of
turning his son into a worm.  She said, "How long did the father
stay?"

"Couple of hours.  Then he left.  Drove off in a hurry."

"And, of course, you don't have the slightest idea where he went."

"I was paid to watch Will John Benedict.  Other than noting his
fathers' presence at the scene, I had no interest in the man."

Sharon's thoughts spun in a crazy quilt of colors.

"I

assume you reported all this to Cas," she said.

"That's what I was paid to do."

Sharon watched her lap.  She was deep in thought.

Potter leaned anxiously forward.

"Going public with all this, getting my name in the newspapers, can
ruin me in this town."

Sharon looked slowly up.  Ending Mark C. Potter's career might not be
the worst thing for the city of Washington.  On the other hand, should
Potter go out of business, there would always be a clone ready to crawl
out of the woodwork.

"I don't see many ways around it, sir," she said.

"Having a client who's trying to cast suspicion on himself, that's a
new one even on me.  On the q.t."  would you be willing to talk to the
police?"

"I'd be willing to talk to anybody, to keep my name out of it."

"There's no guarantee, and having you tell your story to the
prosecution could backfire.  The case has become a political football.
This U.S. Attorney has taken a position that Will John is guilty, and
having one of these types admit in public he's made a mistake is close
to impossible.  What I'm saying is, it's a risk.

Sally Pong and Cedric Hyde might very well listen to your story,
pretend to believe you, then put every cop on the force on the case in
an effort to discredit you.

Once prosecutors go public with a theory, then who really committed the
crime often becomes irrelevant to them."

"It would be worth a try," Potter said.

"Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

"It's what could be lost that worries me," Sharon said.

"In all due respect, sir, whether or not we'd be hurting your image
isn't the most important thing to us.  The question is whether holding
you out as an ace in the hole is the proper strategy.  It might be, it
might not be.  A lot hinges on Will John's attitude, once I confront
him with what I've learned."  Sharon gathered the stack of papers,
stuffed them in her satchel, and prepared to rise.

"I'll be in touch, Mr.  Potter.

Possibly to have you talk to Sally Pong, Cedric Hyde, and those two
detectives on the case.  The other possibility you won't like, but you
may have to put on your testifying shoes."

ha ron didn't tell Russell Black what she'd learned right away, because
she wanted to think things over.

Convincing Russ that Paul Benedict hadn't been truthful would take some
doing.  She wanted to hit the entire Benedict clan, all at once, with
Mark C. Potter's story, so that Paul, Will John, and Mattie Ruth
wouldn't have time to put then heads together and concoct a new lie.

So she kept her mouth shut, spent a sleepless night tossing and
turning, and the next morning held her silence through a two-hour
meeting with Will John and Paul Benedict at the Georgetown condo.  Russ
decided that it would be better for him, Sharon, and the two
investigators to go downtown alone, with Will John coming later in
order to keep the defendant isolated from the media as much as
possible.  For once, Sharon couldn't disagree.

Russ leaned forward with intensity.  He and Sharon were in springy
French provincial armchairs, Paul Benedict on the sofa.  Mattie Ruth
was at the office and was to come later.  Cas had excused herself and
gone into the kitchen, leaving Will John alone at one end of the love
seat.  Alone as he always has been, Sharon thought.  Lyndon Gray and
Mrs.  Welton were in the foyer, speaking in low tones.

Black said, "Now this thing this mornin' is nothin' but an arraignment.
It's a formality.  The law says you got a right to it, to have the
charges read and all that, though the defense always waives readin' of
the indictment, which is what we're goin' to do.  In the overall scheme
o' things, the trial, this mornin' means nothin'.  The judge will
continue your bail and the whole thing won't take over fifteen minutes
or so.

Piece o' cake.

"But it's also another appearance in front o' the public, keep that in
mind.  Everybody that's gonna be on the jury, if there is a jury trial,
everybody that'll be on the panel will be watchin' on television.  They
know nothin' about the law, but they'll be formin' opinions.  You been
wronged.  The whole lot o' you.

Let it show."  Black checked his watch.

"We better be goin'.  Paul, time your arrival for about fifteen minutes
before the hearin' is to begin.  That won't stop the press from buggin'
you, but at least it'll cut down on their buggin' time."  Black stood.
Sharon hoisted up her satchel and came to her feet as well.

Russ stopped in the doorway, then fell into step beside Paul Benedict.
The former law school prof wore a dark Armani suit.  His steel gray
hair was perfectly combed.  He glanced at Sharon over his shoulder.

She pointedly ignored him.

Will John was dressed in conservative gray.  As he paused to let Sharon
go in front of him he said softly,

"I can't tell you how glad I am that you and Mr.  Black are here and on
my side."

Sharon paused.  Russ and Paul Benedict went on ahead.  Gray and Mrs.
Welton moved toward the exit.

Sharon turned to Will John and said in a whisper, "You may not be glad
for long."

Will John's forehead wrinkled in puzzlement.

"I'm not sure that I ..."

They were, for the moment, alone.  Sharon said, "If you don't stop
lying to us, you won't be glad we're here at all."

"My God, Sharon, I didn't kill her.  If you think I'm lying about that
..."

"Not about that, no.  Not only did you not kill her, you didn't even
dispose of the body.  Seems you left out a few things and added some
others, such as that Courtney wasn't even-here when you got back from
your little errands and that you called your father and he showed up.
Just little details like that.  Things that I suspect Daddy told you to
say."

Will John Benedict stared at her.

"For the moment," Sharon said, "you and I have a little secret.  Your
father can't keep you from going to prison under the circumstances.
Will John.  Only Russ and I can.  Now.  After this arraignment, you and
I and Russ are going to have another meeting.  And then you're going to
tell us the truth, or Russ and I will be on the next thing smokin' back
to Dallas."  She took a step toward the foyer, then paused again.

"Every bit of it.  Will John.  I'll find out if you tell another lie.

And I wouldn't chance my finding out, if I were you, that wouldn't be
good at all."

* * * When they arrived at 500 Indiana Avenue, she allowed Lyndon Gray
and Mrs.  Welton to clear her a path through the mob of reporters
outside, hustle her up two flights of stairs, and usher her into the
courtroom.

She stayed a few paces behind Russell Black and went down the aisle
with her head lowered in a submissive attitude.  It was a full half
hour before Will John's scheduled arraignment, yet Cedric Hyde and
Sally Pong were already at the prosecution table and there were at
least a hundred watchers seated in the gallery.  Sally Pong was in
animated conversation with Ginny Toledo and Isaac Brown, the D.C.
detectives.

A swarthy man with jet black hair was bent over the rail, speaking to
Cedric Hyde in whispers, and Sharon recognized Gregory Campisi from his
pictures in the newspapers and on television.  Flanking the United
States Attorney for the District of Columbia were two men in dark
suits, probably FBI agents but possibly AUSDA's from Campisi's staff.
Strung out along the second row like a summit meeting were Boots York,
Leonard Smith, and Mack Taylor, the Porter, Ragsdale & Jones lawyers
who'd tried to bully the yokels from Texas upon their arrival in D.C.
Seated beside Boots York was Wallace Burns, the politically connected,
I'm-here-in-an-advisory-capacity-only black guy.

Democrats to the rescue, Sharon thought.  Wallace Burns attempted eye
contact.  Sharon kept walking and ignored him.  She went through the
gate, moved in alongside Russ, and thumped her satchel onto the defense
table.  Gray and Mrs.  Welton sank watchfully into chairs against the
rail.

It was Sharon's first visit to D.C. criminal court, and the
half-federal, half-local atmosphere was something else.  The padded
spectator's pews and beige pile carpet were a step up from most county
facilities, but still a level down from what she'd seen in U.S.
District Courtrooms.  The judge's dais was dark wood, likely mahogany.
Twin flags hung from gilt poles on either side of the bench, a Stars 'n
Stripes and the blue-and white banner of the District of Columbia.  A
shiny brass plaque affixed to the dais announced to one and all that
the judge was named Wilson Whaley, and Sharon suspected that the
defense had drawn the black bean in the courtroom assignment.  Whaley,
according to the bar association pictorial directory, was forty-four, a
graduate of Columbia Law and a Bush appointee.  According to
Russ--who'd appeared sans Sharon for Will John's bail hearing while
Cedric Hyde represented the people--the informal word on the judge was,
"Look out."  It was too hot inside the room, and in Dallas District
Court Sharon would have removed her jacket and hung it over the back of
her chair.  She didn't think that going coat less in Wilson Whaley's
court would be a good idea.

Sally Pong came over wearing a tight-fitting black suit and matching
patent spike-heeled shoes.  The suit had padded shoulders and showed
her legs to good advantage without the slightest hint of cheesecake; if
Sally Pong were to appear in front of a jury in that outfit, the male
jurors would be appreciative and the women wouldn't be offended.  Pong
said hello to Sharon, then leaned over the table and extended her hand
to Russell Black.

"Sally Pong, sir," she said.  Black scrambled to his feet, shook her
hand, and mumbled his name.

Pong took a step back, folded her arms and stood with one foot slightly
in front of the other.  She glanced toward the two empty seats at the
defense table.

"I assume your client will be gracing us with his presence."

Black looked at the vacant chairs as well.

"Will John's mama and daddy are bringin' him.  Might be runnin' a
little late, but he wouldn' miss it."

"A word to the wise, sir," Pong said.

"This judge won't tolerate tardiness, something for both sides to keep
in mind."  She looked to Sharon.

"We'd like to talk some stipulations to move the hearing along, Miss
Hays."

Sharon's silence deferred to Russ.  Black's eyebrow twitched.

"Always open to savin' time, Miz Pong," he said.

"I'll assume you'll waive the reading of the indictment, then."  Pong
shrugged as if to say, no big deal.

Black folded his hands on the table.

"Hell's bells, it was all printed in the newspapers the day after the
bail hearin'.  Who'd want to sit through all that again?"

"And will you do the same with probable cause?"

Pong's tone was helpful.

"We'd as soon not drag things out with a lot of testimony."

Black opened, then closed his mouth.  Sharon softly drew breath.  SOP
in arraignments was to get things over with as quickly as possible so
both sides could be on their merry way, so requests for the defense to
waive probable cause evidence weren't unusual.  In Will John Benedict's
case, however, the press had printed innuendo after innuendo, much of
which was total baloney.  Forcing the D.C. cops to testify as to what
they did and didn't have on the congressman, right here and now, could
set the record straight, and also save a lot of grief when the same
detectives took the stand at trial.  Sharon caught Russ's eye and
jerked her head toward the media section.  She dug her toe into her
boss and mentor's ankle.

Black grinned at Pong.

"Hate to sound uncooperative, but we'd just as soon you'd put your
people on.

Most folks in this town an' around the country already know the case
front to back, but my memory idn so good.  Could be I'll learn
something' that hadn been on television."

Pong stiffened.

"I suppose we're in for a long morning, then."

"I'm sure you can make it interestin'," Black said.

"The time'll go by before you know it."

"Mmm-hmm.  Nice meeting you, Mr.  Black," Pong said haughtily.  She
turned on her heel and stalked away.

Black winced, leaned over, and rubbed his ankle.

"That hurt like the blazes, girl."

Sharon scooted closer to the table and winked.

"I

intended it to hurt, old boss," she said.

A short time later, Sharon twiddled her thumbs while Russell Black
paced back and forth in front of the defense table.  Both attorneys
shot occasional glances toward the rear of the courtroom.  Still no
Will John Benedict, no Paul Benedict or Mattie Ruth, no Cas, and no
word from any of them.  After Sally Pong's conference with Sharon and
Russ, the pretty Oriental had returned to confer with Toledo and Brown,
the D.C. detectives.  Now the meeting was over, and both prosecutors
watched the rear of the courtroom as well.

The detectives were hunched over in their seats, going over their notes
in anticipation of having to testify.

Cedric Hyde wore a look of triumph on his face.  He whispered something
to Sally Pong.  She nodded and smiled.  Someone in the spectator
section muffled a cough.

Sharon dug into her satchel, produced a notepad, and scribbled two
phone numbers.  She tore off the page, signaled to Lyndon Gray and,
when the Englishman got up from his seat at the rail and bent near,
handed him the slip of paper.  She said softly, "The top number is Will
John Benedict's condo and the bottom number is the cell phone in Paul
Benedict's car.  Go find a phone in the corridor and call both places.
I've got to believe they're stuck in traffic or have had an accident or
something."

Gray nodded and headed off, nodding slightly to Mrs.  Welton as he
passed her chair and went through the gate.  Mrs.  Welton wore a brown
pleated dress with a white ruffled collar.  She frowned at Sharon.
Sharon spread her hands in frustration.  Lyndon Gray had made it
halfway up the aisle when the bailiff marched in, stood at attention,
and bawled at the top of his lungs, "Awwwl rise."  Gray paused and
slipped onto the end of a row of onlookers.

The gallery came to its feet with a creak of wood and a whisper of
nylon.  Russell Black stopped pacing and faced the front.  Sharon got
up in a hurry.  Then the door behind the bench popped open and the
judge hustled in.

Wilson Whaley was a short man with black hair combed over bald spots,
and walked in a near goose step as his robe swirled around his calves.
He had an abbreviated mustache and a pinched-together mouth, and Sharon
thought immediately of Hitler.  She wondered if the judge's hair was
dyed, and decided that it probably was.  Whaley jogged up three short
steps and ascended to his throne.  The bailiff bellowed, "Beee seated."
The rustle of lawyers and spectators retaking their seats was like a
collective sigh.

Whaley's eyes moved rapidly back and forth in his head as he surveyed
the courtroom.  He looked like a lizard seated on a rock, and Sharon
halfway expected his tongue to dart in and out.  Good Lord, she
thought, what have we gotten' into here?  She glanced over her
shoulder. When she'd defended Daria Cowan in California, all the judges
and lawyers had been camera-conscious.

Here in Washington, however, the TV people weren't permitted past the
courtroom entry.  A sketch artist was seated in the media section, a
slender young guy with longish hair.  He watched the judge and worked
his pencil with flowing strokes.

Sharon turned back to the front as Judge Whaley snapped open a folder
and read loudly, "The court calls Cause Number 99-CR-70448, the People
of the District of Columbia versus William John Benedict, hearing on
arraignment.  Are both sides ready?"  He closed the folder and placed
one hand over the knuckles of the other.

Pong and Hyde popped up on the prosecution side as the detectives
continued to study their notes.  Hyde squared his posture and said,
"The people are ready, Your Honor."  Judge Whaley turned his glare on
the defense table.

Sharon couldn't remember ever having felt ill at ease in the courtroom
in her life, but also couldn't recall ever beginning a hearing without
her client by her side.  She stood, certain that her ears had turned
red, and hoped against hope that Russell Black could think of something
brilliant to tell the judge.

Black did his best.

"Russell Black, representin' the defendant."  He folded his hands over
his belly.

"An' I'd like to introduce my associate.  Miss Sharon Hays here."

Sharon wondered if she should dip into a curtsy.

She considered inching sideways to stand in front of the vacant seat on
her right, to cover up Will John's absence.  God, maybe the judge
wouldn't notice.

"I see you, Mr.  Black," Whaley snapped.

"And I see Miss Hays, she of Hollywood fame."  His mustache wiggled as
he pursed his lips.

"And while we're all impressed to have these famous faces here, who I
don't see is your client."

Black's Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed, hard.  His.
smile seemed plastered on.

"Seems the congressman's .. . been detained."

Cedric Hyde didn't let Black get away with it.  He said loudly, facing
the bench, "The defendant Your Honor.  The people will object to any
murder indic tee receiving special treatment simply because of the job
he happens to hold."  He put clenched fists at his waist and glanced at
Pong, who nodded encouragement.

"As will the Court, Mr.  Hyde."  Whaley indignantly tugged on the
sleeve of his robe.

"Mr.  Black, I don't think it's possible that your client doesn't
realize the seriousness of what is going on here.  Do you?"

"

"Course not.  Your Honor."  Black sounded unsure, even lame.

"But no way would he not be here unless something' happened."

Whaley smirked.

"Something is about to happen, sir.  I don't know how they do things in
Texas, but Washington is a city steeped in tradition.  One of which
is,-if a criminal defendant fails to appear, we call his name three
times on the courthouse steps and then issue a warrant.  And forfeit
bail.  Mr.  Tirelli."

The bailiff stepped up to stand before the bench.

He was a man in his fifties with graying hair and a slightly stooped
posture.  Whaley wrote something down, folded over a piece of paper,
and handed it over the top of his dais.

"To the steps, Mr.  Tirelli," Whaley said.

"Call for Mr.  William John Benedict, three times.  If he doesn't
appear, turn the bench warrant over to the marshals."

Sharon stood helpless, thinking, are they really going to do this?
Yelling three times from the courthouse steps, sure, that was buried in
the statutes right beside ducking stools and stocks on the town square,
but everywhere else in the world the tradition had gone the way of the
horse and buggy.  Apparently in D.C."  they still went through the
motions.  She halfway expected Wilson Whaley to reach under his chair
and don a powdered wig.  For pity's sake, if the defendant had skipped,
did they expect the guy to come running up,

huffing and puffing, when the bailiff called his name?

Of all the ... The bailiff nodded to the judge, turned, and marched
through the gate toward the exit.  Sharon watched him go, and looked
toward the rear.  She expelled breath as the door swung inward and Cas
Benedict came in.

The bailiff stopped in his tracks and looked to the judge, as if
inquiring what to do next.

Something was terribly wrong.  Cas's hair was disheveled and she was
dressed in jeans, a baggy sweater, and dirty white Nikes; no way would
Cas appear in public without being perfectly coiffed barring one
helluvan emergency.  Her cheeks were pale.  Sharon took a step toward
the gallery, planning to meet Cas halfway, but Lyndon Gray was way
ahead of her.  The big Englishman was already near the back, and bent
his head to listen as Cas talked to him in excited whispers.

Gray turned toward the front and met Sharon's gaze.  His lips were
parted in shock.  He came down through the gate and murmured something
to Russell Judge Whaley banged his gavel.

"What's causing this disturbance?  Mr.  Black, if you .. . ?"

Black held a hand, palm out, in the direction of the judge.  Distress
flooded the older lawyer's features.

Sharon hurried over to stand between Russ and the Englishman.

"What is it, boss?"  Sharon said.

Black looked down at the carpet.

Sharon turned anxiously to Lyndon Gray.

The Brit slowly shook his head.

"It's Congressman Benedict, Miss Hays.  Something's .. . according to
Mrs.  Benedict, they think it's a suicide."

ha ron face was numb, partly from shock and partly from the cold.
Another front had blown in, this one threatening snow, sleet, and icy
roads.  The scene in front of the Benedicts' Georgetown condo was like
something out of Gorky Park, policemen in clumsy thick overcoats
lumbering in and out, reporters taking notes, fumbling with their
ballpoints through heavy gloves.  The minicam operators stood poised
and stiff, like people made from boards.  Everywhere there was the
wind, rustling leafless branches and turning lips a purplish blue.

The crime scene and emergency medical units had come and gone, going
through the motions, and any moment the cops would take down their
yellow tape and leave the scene.  Sally Pong, Cedric Hyde, and the two
D.C. detectives had stopped by, more to verify that the subject of
their investigation was really dead than for any other reason.  They'd
treat Will John's death as an open-and-shut suicide, and Sharon could
practically hear the sighs of relief echoing from Capitol Hill.  Paul
Benedict had briefly addressed the re porters to tell them, yes.  Will
John Benedict had apparently killed himself, and to ask them to show
some compassion for the family.  When her former law prof had gone into
his personal grief, his loss, Sharon had felt like puking on the
ground.  She'd watched the EMTs roll the shrouded body down the walk to
an ambulance, load the gurney into the rear, and drive away.

Now she stood on the lawn near the sidewalk, with Lyndon Gray and Mrs.
Welton on either side.  Mrs.

Welton wore a linen coat over her pleated dress, and seemed immune to
the cold.  Paul Benedict's dark blue Mercedes sat across the street,
motor running, heater on.  Russ was in back with Cas, consoling her.
Mattie Ruth sat in the front passenger seat with Paul Benedict behind
the wheel.  He'd joined the others after his statement to the press,
and had invited Sharon to share in the warmth inside the car.  She'd
declined.  If her choice was to occupy the same space with Paul
Benedict, she'd rather freeze.

A black Lincoln stretch pulled to the curb.  Boots York and Wallace
Burns got out and came over.

Burns wore a muffler at his throat and York had a ski cap pulled down
over his ears.  Burns nodded hello to Sharon.

"Is it true?  Is he really .. . ?"  There were splotches on his
chocolate-colored cheeks.

She shoved her hands deep into her overcoat pockets and nodded sadly.

"He's gone."

"Jesus."  Burns turned to York.

"Jesus, Boots, he's .. ."

York's nose was red and dripping.

"Nasty business.

Nasty.  Uh, Miss Hays?"  He stepped forward.

Sharon turned to face the managing partner of Porter,

Ragsdale & Jones's Washington office, a guy freezing to death, wearing
a hijacker's hat, his nose running like a five year old's.

"Has anyone made a statement?"  York asked.  He indicated the knot of
reporters.

"Yes, sir, they have.  Paul Benedict spoke to them a minute ago."

"Ah, Paul.  He'd know what to say."

"Yes, sir," Sharon said.

"He certainly would."

Burns surveyed the scene.

"There's not much for us to do here, then."

"Doesn't appear that there is," York said.  Burns started back to the
car.  York hesitated, then leaned closer to Sharon.

"Could you give our condolences?"

Sharon expelled foggy breath.

"Oh?  What condolences?"

York stared at her."

Sharon let it out.

"You heard me.  Will John's dead.

That's sad for him, but I don't know anyone else who seems to give a
damn.  For everybody who's been holding their breath over this case,
including you and the holy-assed Democratic Party, things couldn't have
worked out any better.  You've checked out the scene, Mr.  York.  You
can now notify all those frigging politicians that the nation won't
learn they've been playing around with girls the age of their daughters
after all.

Tell them they can breathe easier.  But condolences?

I'd as soon you'd spare me the bullshit, okay?"

Sharon didn't really have the stomach for it, but spent some time in
the first-floor guest room along with Welton and Gray after the cops
and reporters had gone.  The wall and carpet in one corner was
spattered with Will John's blood.  According to the story Cas had told
the police, the congressman had excused himself shortly after his
lawyers had departed on their way to the courthouse.  Cas and Paul
Benedict had remained in the sitting room.  Moments later they'd heard
the gunshot, then hurried down the corridor to find Will John crumpled
in the corner.  A pistol had been on the floor beside his hip.  There
was a hole in the plaster where the crime scene people had dug a bullet
out of the wall.  The CSUs hadn't bothered to mark the spot where the
body had lain.

Sharon bent from the waist to study the wall.  The hole was twice again
the size of a silver dollar.

"Pretty big bullet, wouldn't you think?"  Sharon looked over her
shoulder at Lyndon Gray.

Gray nodded agreement.

"It's no twenty-two, mum."

"Give you odds it's a nine-millimeter."  Sharon straightened and turned
to him.

"If you can deduce that," Gray said, "from the size of that digging,
you're a better detective than I."

"I'm merely adding two and two.  It was a nine millimeter that put the
holes in Courtney Lee's face.

Are you up on your forensics, Mr.  Gray?"

"In an amateurish sort of way, miss.  That's more Olivia's department.
She had training in L.A."  on the force."

Mrs.  Welton came over from beside the bed.  Her chin was tilted in
curiosity.

Sharon smiled hopefully.

"Did your schooling include blood spatter evidence?"

Mrs.  Welton was matter-of-fact.

"Some.  It wasn't my specialty."

"I dabbled in it," Sharon said, "when I was a prosecutor in Dallas.
Forget powder burns.  Any forensic reports on Will John will be buried
so deep we'll never see them.  But is it possible to tell from blood
spatter how far the gun was from a shooting victim?"

Mrs.  Welton was dubious.

"Blood spatter is generally used in analyzing knife attacks, Miss Hays.
The caliber weapon would be a factor.  It's true that the further away
from the victim the lower the speed of the projectile on entry, which
could affect the distance the body fluids would splash about, but .. .
well, we'd be talking an educated guess at the most favorable."

Sharon smiled at her.

"Which, knowing you, means plus or minus a millimeter or so."

Mrs.  Welton blushed.

"You're too kind, mum."

Gray folded his arms.

"I'm not sure I follow.  The congressman was charged with a grisly
homicide.  Suicide is a natural conclusion under the circumstances."

"Too natural," Sharon said.

"And natural except for one thing.  Will John didn't commit the
murder.

They had the perfect alibi concocted, which yesterday was handed to me
on a silver platter.  We were going to get Will John acquitted and
everyone was going to go their merry way.  Courtney Lee wasn't Will
John's exclusive property by a long shot.  No telling how many
politicos are wiping sweat from their foreheads, right now."

"Are the police aware of this alibi?"  Gray asked.

Sharon vigorously shook her head.

"Three people knew about it that I'm aware of, Cas Benedict, me,

and this private detective.  You and Mrs.  Welton make five.  I suspect
Paul Benedict knew, and possibly Mattie Ruth."

"Which could create motive to murder the congressman?"

Gray regarded Sharon as if he expected her to sprout wings and fly
away.

"Possibly not, Mr.  Gray.  But all that coupled with what I see here
make suicide fishy as all get-out."

Gray spread his hands.

"I see a room.  A bloodspattered wall.  A bullet hole."

"And the forest, and the trees," Sharon said.

"Mrs.

Welton, how many suicides did you investigate when you were an L.A.
cop?"

"A few," Olivia Welton said.

"Okay, and in how many of those cases did the guy stand in the corner
and blow his brains out?"

Mrs.  Welton looked thoughtful.

"The bath is the favorite place."

"Exactly," Sharon said.

"For wrist slashings, pill overdoses, and self-inflicted gunshot wounds
right?"

She pointed to a closed door.

"There's a guest bath right in there."

Gray continued to be skeptical.

"The usual place, yes.  But that doesn't prove .. ."

"Bear with me, Mr.  Gray.  You, too, Mrs.  Welton, I'm not going to
start screaming and attack you or anything."  She walked over to the
corner, near the spot where Will John would have stood in order to
drench the wall in blood and brain matter when he shot himself.

"I'm five-nine, nearly five-eleven in heels.  When Will John and I
dated in law school I used to wear flats so I wouldn't be taller than
he.  So make him five-ten.  Picture this five-ten guy standing here
blowing his brains out.  Now, look at the bullet hole in the wall."

They looked.  The place where the CSUs had dug out the bullet was at
the level of Sharon's breastbone.

Gray said, with little conviction, "The victim's skull could have
deflected its path."

"Some," Sharon said.

"But a foot and a half?  A nine-millimeter is capable of blowing a hole
in an elephant, folks."  She raised her hand, formed a pistol with a
thumb and forefinger, and aimed downward at the side of her head.

"He'd have to be a contortionist.

No way."  She relaxed her arm and walked back to stand between the two
Brits.

"There's more," Sharon said.

"And this is something you'd never get before a jury in a million
years.  Will John Benedict didn't have the guts to kill himself. That's
not showing much respect for the dearly departed, is it?  But a spade
is a spade, what can I tell you?"


Sharon blinked in wonderment as Mrs.  Welton produced a tape measure
from her handbag and, with Lyndon Gray holding one end and calling out
the measurements, began to plot the height of the various blood
splotches and the distance from the topmost spatter to the spot where
the body had lain.  The things this pair can come up with, Sharon
thought.  Who would think to carry a tape measure around, just in case?
She left the Brits hard at work and went into the living room.

Will John had been dead for mere hours, yet the atmosphere by his
fireplace was hardly a wake.  Paul Benedict sat on the Early American
sofa, chatting calmly with Russell Black.  This bozo just lost his son,
Sharon thought, yet acts as if he's talking football scores.  Black
himself looked uneasy and just a bit incredulous, his gaze darting back
and forth between Paul Benedict and his U.S. Senator wife.  At least
Mattie Ruth Benedict's grief was real; she sat across the room from
Black and her husband, her eyes red from crying and her makeup
streaked.  She looked helplessly at Sharon; Sharon felt a surge of
sympathy and placed a hand on the senator's shoulder.  Mattie Ruth
sniffled and blew her nose.

Paul Benedict was saying, "I suppose transporting the body back to
Baytown would be the best.  We have a family plot in Austin, but Will's
constituency would expect the funeral there."

His constituency?  Sharon thought.  His freaking constituency?

What about his mother, you .. . ?

Mattie Ruth was near hysterics.

"I want him buried in Austin, Paul."

"Oh?  A memorial service in Baytown then, perhaps.

At least that."

"I'm going to bury my son where he'll be near me forever," Mattie Ruth
said, twisting a handkerchief.

"And to hell with Baytown, his constituency, and everyone else in the
world.  "J "He is a public figure, Mattie," Paul Benedict said.

"Which gives us obligations to others than ourselves."

Russell Black's chin lifted in surprise.  Can't believe this guy, old
boss?  Sharon thought.  Well, I can.  She pictured her talk with Sheila
Winston, and Sheila's opinion that Paul Benedict was a one-of-a-kind
psychopath who viewed people only as a means to an end.  Including his
own son?  Sharon thought.  You bet, Sheila would have told her.  The
only death this man would grieve would be his own.

Mattie Ruth sobbed and rubbed her eyes.  Paul Benedict's look at his
wife was one of ... disgust, Sharon thought, that's the only word for
it.  Jesus H. Christ in a candy store, Sharon thought, Mattie Ruth's
grief over the death of her son embarrasses the guy.  Sharon narrowed
her eyes and glared at her former law school prof.  He blandly met her
gaze.

He killed his own child, Sharon thought.

At that instant she knew.  And not only did she know, Paul Benedict
knew that she knew, and understanding passed between the two of them.

Prove it, his look said.

You bet I will, her look said back.

Paul Benedict calmly turned to Russell Black, and asked the older
lawyer if he'd mind helping with the arrangements.

"Do what I can."  Black's tone was unsure; he hadn't missed the
exchange between Sharon and Will John Benedict's father.  He threw
Sharon a curious glance.  She concentrated on something in the far
corner of the room.

An idea came to her.

"How is Cas dealing with it?"

Paul Benedict stiffened.  His gaze rested warily on Sharon Hays.

Mattie Ruth looked toward the staircase in the corridor.

"She's taken to her room."

Sharon stepped toward the exit.

"I should go to her."

Paul Benedict shot up as if stuck with a pin, stepped forward, and
blocked her path.

"I don't know that Cassandra is up to company at the moment."  He
seemed determined; Sharon could talk to Cas after Paul Benedict had
rehearsed her, not before.

Sharon harked back to her acting days, and slowly softened the area
around her eyes.  It was the identical look she'd once used
off-Broadway, in a play called Hester's Farm, when her character's
father had died and she'd managed some crocodile tears for an audience
of fifteen or so.

"I realize that it's a terrible blow to Cas," she said.

"But for her to be alone at a time like this?"  She gently touched Paul
Benedict's arm and smiled up at him.  I never should have left the
stage, she thought.

"I'll go to her while Russ helps you with the arrangements," she said.
She exchanged a sympathetic look with Black, then returned her
attention to Paul Benedict.

"Believe me," she said, "we feel your pain.  We want to bear as much of
it as we can."  Bill Clinton and me, Sharon thought.  She stepped
quickly around Paul Benedict, hurried through the doorway, and mounted
the stairs.  As she went up she chanced a look over her shoulder.  Her
former teacher seemed rooted in place, the hatred in his eyes enough to
kill.

The grieving widow was in fact painting her toenails.

As Sharon entered the bedroom without knocking, Cas gasped as if in
terror and almost dropped the polish.  She was seated on the
four-poster king-size, wearing a pale blue shortie nightgown, one leg
bent at the knee, her foot resting on a towel, cotton balls between her
toes.  Her jaw slackened into the same shocked expression she'd worn
when she'd hurried into the courtroom.  Not a half-bad actress herself,
Sharon thought.  Cas's voice quavered in just the right tearful
pitch.

"I thought it might keep my mind off of .. ."

Sharon sat in a cushioned armchair and crossed her legs.  The bedroom
carpet was rose-colored, the drapes pink lace.  In an Early American
style cabinet was a big screen television.  Sharon folded her arms and
jiggled her foot.

"I can't believe he's .. ."  Cas capped the bottle and gently placed
the polish on the nightstand.  The tufted bedspread was snow white. Her
toenails were pale pink.

"I can't, either," Sharon said.

"The police aren't necessarily buying the suicide story, Cas."  She
remained deadpan and hoped that her nose didn't grow.

Cas's eyes widened.

"Why?  Why wouldn't they?"

"There are things that make the medical examiner wonder.  We have to be
certain we're all in sync as to exactly what happened."

"What could make them wonder?  Will John's been despondent ever since
... I suppose he couldn't bear the thought of .. ."  Cas fumbled for
words.

"What thought?  The thought of being acquitted?  I spoke with your
detective yesterday."

"Oh?  Mark?"

Sharon studied Cas, the slightly averted gaze.  Time to drop the
pretenses, Sharon thought.

"I don't mean Bulldog Drummond, Cassandra," she said.

"And you know already what the detective had to say.  What I'm not
certain of, what changed you all plans?"

Cas tried her best.  Her expression tragic, she said, "Yes,
everything's changed now.  My entire life's going to be different."

"Not your plans.  Youall's plans, plural, as we say in the quaint rural
areas of the Lone Star State.  Your plans and your father-in-law's.
Paul Benedict's going down, count on it.  The only question in my mind
is, are you going down as well?  I don't think Mattie Ruth is part of
the plot, though I don't understand how you all pulled it off without
her being in on it.  Paul Benedict is the one-in-a-million father who
could murder his son without blinking.  Mattie Ruth, conscienceless
politician that she is, is still a mother.  She'd have no part of it."
Sharon was reverting to her days as a prosecutor, grilling the suspect
like a pro, throwing in supposition as if it were an established
fact.

Cas recoiled as if slapped.

"Surely you don't think that I would ..."

"Oh, hell, Cas, except by marriage you're not even part of the family.
I can't think of a single reason why you wouldn't, if you thought it
could do away with a nasty problem.  And Will John's problem was as
nasty as they come."

Cas sat up straighter, like a schoolgirl caught cheating, determined to
deny to the bitter end.

"He shot himself, Sharon.  We were in the parlor and heard the
gunshot."

Sharon chewed her inner cheek.

"I heard the story you told.  And you charged down the hall to the
guest room in a panic, right?"

"That is what I said."

"Yes, you did.  And found the body where?"

Cas stared at her.  Cas's lips parted.  She closed her mouth.

"By the bed, right?"  Sharon said.

"In between the dresser and the bathroom door."

"If you say."

"I don't say.  You said.  Where was the body, Cas?"

"Right there, close to the .. ."  Cas caught herself.

Her facial muscles relaxed as realization dawned.

"Right, Cas," Sharon said.

"The body wasn't anywhere near the bed.  Was there much blood?"

Cas stared.  She started to say something, then closed her mouth.

"So now that we've established that you never personally saw the body
at all," Sharon said, "why don't you tell me what really happened?"

Cas hung her feet over the side of the bed and hugged herself.

"God, Sharon.  It's over.  Why do you even care?"

"Pick a reason.  I was representing a client, and even though he's dead
I'd like to see his innocence established for one thing.  For another
.. . hey, old schoolmate, you might not like this one."

"That's not a bit funny."

"No, it isn't.  The other night you were going to tell me something
about Paul Benedict, then changed your mind and drove off in a cloud of
dust."

Cas looked toward the dresser.

"What makes you think that I was going to tell you anything about
him?"

"Oh, come off it.  You asked me if my problems with the Benedicts had
anything to do with Paul."

"Maybe I was only guessing."

"And maybe pigs fly.  I have a story about Professor Paul, too.  Want
to swap?"

Cas's expression was suddenly petulant.

"I already know you had an affair with him."

Sharon was stunned speechless.  She looked up at the ceiling.

"Is that what he told you?"

"You weren't the only law student throwing herself at him," Cas said.


"Don't worry, it's never really affected my opinion of you one way or
the other.  You were never exactly Miss Perfect."

"How the hell would you know that?  You talked to me one time,
total."

"I heard things.  Think what you want about me, Sharon, I never slept
around for my grades."

"Slept .. ."  Sharon propped an elbow on her thigh and rested her chin
in the palm of her hand.

"Jesus Christ, is that what you meant?"

"What I meant when?"

"The other night.  When you asked if my problem had anything to do with
Paul Benedict."

"That could have been what I was talking about."

"Well, now hear this," Sharon said.

"Not that I care what you think, but my having an affair with Paul
Benedict is too absurd for even you to believe in.  He tried to rape me
and 'in the process beat the crap out of me.  That's not my idea of a
hot romance.  Is it yours?"

Cas's teeth clenched in hatred.

"You're making that up."

"Why on earth would I make something like that... ?"

Sharon trailed off.  Her expression softened.  She felt pity.

"My God, you've been sleeping with your father in-law, haven't you?"

Cas stood up from the bed.

"I don't have to listen to this.  Not from you."

"I don't think it matters who you hear it from, Cas.

You know the truth, and so do I. And while you're all dressed up for
the funeral like Jackie 0, that won't change what has happened.  You
got together with Paul Benedict to kill the girl because she was
putting your meal ticket's political career in danger.  But why Will
John?  It seems like a lot of trouble to go to, murder Courtney Lee,
frame your husband, then conveniently have that private detective as an
alibi witness.

That was going to get him acquitted.  You'd gotten away with it,
scot-free.  We were going to get Will John off and you were going to be
on your merry way, possibly even eventually into the White House.

So, why kill the guy just when you'd pulled it off?  It seems to me you
were headed for sunny seas, full speed ahead."

Cas marched to the door and opened it.

"I think you'd better go."

Sharon breathed through her nose.  She stood.

"For now I will.  But don't think you're through with this.

Why, Cas?"

"You're only guessing."

Sharon went over and stood in the doorway.  Cas's nose was a foot from
her own.

"I was only guessing," Sharon said.

"Not anymore.  You and Paul Benedict have handled the mechanics pretty
well.  But it's your motive for killing Will John that'll screw you up.
You just wait and see."


ha ron sat in the Lincoln Town Car with the heater running, tiny
snowflakes drifting down and melting on the windshield.  She unfolded a
slip of paper and checked Mrs.  Welton's directions once more.  This
was the place, had to be, a two-story garden apartment house with trees
lining the sidewalk and a courtyard pool, twenty-five minutes from
downtown D.C."  in a middle-class neighborhood of Arlington.  Steam
rose from the heated pool.  A volleyball net flapped in the wind.
Sharon buttoned her jacket up to her throat, got out, and approached
the building.  She thrust her hands deep in her pockets and hunched her
shoulders.  The breeze wafted up her skirt and chilled her legs.

Number 283 was upstairs overlooking the courtyard.

Sharon pressed the buzzer and waited on the landing.

She let a couple of minutes pass, then pressed the buzzer a second
time.  The handle rattled and the door opened inward the length of a
chain lock.  A pretty brown-haired girl looked out.  Her lips were
curved in a natural smile and there was some baby fat in her cheeks.
Sharon thought immediately of Ashley Judd.

Sharon stepped closer to the opening.

"Miss Rudolph?

Melissa?"

The girl had a soft voice, barely audible over the wind.

"Yes?"

"I'm Sharon Hays."

"I know who you are.  I've seen your picture."  The young woman made no
move to open the door.

Sharon shivered, perhaps a bit more than necessary.

"Look, it's freezing out here, could we .. . ?"

"Those two people here a couple of days ago.  They said they worked for
you."

"Yes.  Mrs.  Welton and Mr.  Gray.  They said you wouldn't talk to
them."

"I'm not a rude person," Melissa Rudolph said.

"It's just that I ..."

"You were a witness for the District of Columbia.  It's understandable
that Miss Pong and Mr.  Hyde didn't want you talking to us.  If you'd
have been my witness I would have told you the same thing.  But I think
you'd have to agree that the circumstances have changed now."

"You mean, since there won't be a trial?"

"Exactly.  My client's no longer around for them to try.  Can I come
in?"

"Gee."  Melissa Rudolph looked past Sharon.

"I

don't know if I'm supposed to."

Sharon tried to smile.  God, it was as if her mouth were frozen in
place.

"It certainly can't hurt the people's case now, can it?"

There was a give-in kind of uncertainty in Melissa Rudolph's
expression.

"I don't suppose it can.  That guy and that woman.  They're British,
right?"

"As British as they come.  And if you don't open that door right now,
you may come out this spring and find me melted on your porch in a
puddle.  I'm turning into an icicle out here."

The door closed.  The chain lock rattled.  Then the door opened and
Melissa Rudolph stepped aside.

Sharon stepped across the threshold.  Warmth flooded over her.  She
vigorously massaged her face.  God, her nose might break off if she
touched it.

The apartment was done in Modern College Student, beanbag chairs, a
cast-off faded cloth sofa, a kitchen table from a garage sale.  On the
table were an open three-ring binder, a couple of ballpoints, and a
book entitled Advanced Calculus.

"Math was my weakest subject," Sharon said.

Melissa Rudolph wore jeans, cloth sneakers, and a U.S. Naval Academy
sweatshirt over a blouse with a white collar.

"It's my major."  She sat down on the sofa.

"Look, I have finals coming."

"Oh?  Back home, those are before Christmas."

Sharon waited for an invitation to sit.  None came.  She sank down into
one of the beanbags.  BBs, or whatever stuffing was inside the plastic,
scrunched under her bottom.

"I know.  Courtney went to S.M.U. before she moved up here.  Here our
semesters aren't over till the end of January."

"I won't keep you for long.  I've got a couple of questions."

Melissa Rudolph wriggled nervously.

"Mrs.  Hays,

I ..."

"Sharon, and I'm not married.  It's Miss.  And I'll call you Melissa,
if it's all right.  It's probably nice for you to chat with someone
from close to home.  I lived in New York once, and it was a relief to
run into a Texan occasionally among all those Yankees."

Melissa looked vacantly toward the window.

"I'll be back in Texas in a couple of weeks.  My father wants me to
transfer someplace closer to home, after what's happened."

"I can't say that I blame him," Sharon said.

"Did" you and Courtney go out a lot together, or were you like ships
passing in the night?  I had two roommates in my single days.  One was
pretty close to me, but I barely knew the other one."  She didn't add
that she'd had a third roommate, Rob, though her time living with
Melanie's father had been pretty well publicized.

Melissa drew up her legs and sat on her feet.

"Oh, we did stuff together.  Not much at night.  My boyfriend's at
Annapolis."

"So I understand.  Courtney didn't date any college guys?"

Melissa seemed distant for a moment.

"It's odd you should ask."

"Why so?  Don't college girls normally date college guys?"

"It's just that, ever since this happened, really a lot right after
Courtney died, a lot of newspaper people called.  All they wanted to
know about was her going with this congressman and that.  All of it
made her sound so sleazy, when she really wasn't.  You're the first one
who's asked if she ever went with any regular people."

"Well, did she?"  Sharon asked.

Melissa looked down at her lap, then slowly back up.

"Growing up and everything, Courtney Lee was the most sheltered chick
in Baytown.  And that means like, really sheltered.  You ever been to
Baytown?

"No.  But I can imagine."

"Right.  Wildest crowd there doesn't get home until after dark.  Her
mom wouldn't even let her date until junior year.  And then it was
like, the preacher's son or somebody.  Even when she was at S.M.U. she
didn't go out that much.  I guess coming to Washington made her sort of
like, wild."

Just like a young lady moving to New York to take up acting, Sharon
thought.  Someone I used to know.

She remembered her purpose in being here, and said, "Melissa, other
than Will John Benedict, did you meet anyone else Courtney was .. .
that she saw socially?"

"A few.  Most of it I really didn't want to know about.  There at the
last, the last month or so, it was like she was a completely different
person.  All these older guys.  I called one of her dates 'sir' one
time.  I don't know who it pissed off the most, him or her."

"Will John wasn't her oldest suitor, then?"

"God, no.  One of the youngest."

Sharon spoke slowly and carefully, measuring her words.

"Melissa, did you .. . ever meet Will John Benedict's father?"

It was as if Melissa Rudolph had been slapped.  She actually
recoiled.

"Believe me, I'm not any kind of voyeur," Sharon said.

"It's very important, or I wouldn't be asking."

Melissa's mouth twisted, as if she felt ill.

"My Lord,

this is so sick I just don't want her remembered like she was at the
end.  Not by anybody."

"I won't have her remembered like that," Sharon said.

"Listen, I'm certain Will John Benedict didn't kill Courtney.  Wouldn't
you like to see the proper people punished for it?"

"You're the first one I've heard that from.  To tell the truth I didn't
think he did it, either.  He just seemed like such a wuss."

"A good analysis," Sharon said.

"Will John was as out of it as you say Courtney was when she was
younger.  His father taught in law school.  Do you know him?"

Melissa seemed near panic.

"My God, he's about sixty.  He's almost as old as my grandfather."

Sharon sat calmly back in the beanbag chair.

"You have met him, then."

"Please don't let this out, Mrs.  Hays."

"Sharon.  Miss.  I'm not about to let anything out.

My only purpose is to see that the right people get what they deserve.
Trust me."

"Man."  Melissa's eyes widened in wonderment.

"Man, you're sure a different kind of lawyer than my father."

"Oh?  How?"

"Daddy says, getting on a personal level with clients is a mistake.
Once the case is over, it's over."

Sharon thought about it.  Was she wrong in doing this?

"Your father's right, in most instances.  But I became personally
involved in this case many years before any of this happened."  She
forged her most encouraging look.

"You loved Courtney, Melissa, I

can tell that with half an eye.  I never knew her, but I'll tell you
something.  The more I learn about her, the more I can relate.  Now
help me put the demons away.  Did you know Will John's father?"

Melissa's features tightened in thought.  She expelled a sigh.

"Not really know.  Met is more like it."

"I don't know if anyone really knows this man.  If you spent five
minutes with him, you probably know him as well as his own wife."

"I saw him once, as I came in from school.  He was sitting right here
in this living room and I thought, What's this old man doing here? It's
the only time I saw him with my own two eyes.  What I know is just what
Courtney told me."

"I'll need to know what Courtney said to you about him," Sharon said.

"But first, did you tell any of this to the police?"

"I wouldn't.  I'd never.  It's bad enough Courtney being, you know,
dead.  But I wouldn't tell this story on her even if she was alive."

Sharon thought about her own childhood, and about some conversations
she'd had with Sheila Winston.  She said to Melissa, "You were a real
friend to her, and that's something rare.  Courtney and her father
weren't particularly close, were they?"

"She wanted to be close to her dad.  When we were like, in grammar
school she was dying to hang out with him more.  But he spent all his
time working.

Courtney practically never saw him."

Which reminded Sharon of another child she knew.

Melanie Hays.

"Why do you want to know about Courtney and her father?"  Melissa
said.

"Something you learn in psychology, about young women who fixate on
older men.  Something about, searching for a father figure.  So
Courtney was seeing Will John Benedict and his father?"

"Really sick, huh?  Most people wouldn't believe it."

"You're right about that," Sharon said.

"But it so happens, you're speaking to one of the people in the world
who would believe it.  Let me guess.  Courtney was out with Will John
someplace and they just happened to bump into Daddy Paul."

Melissa lowered her gaze.

"At a restaurant.  Then the first time the old man called her, he said
he wanted to talk to her about her relationship with his son.  Even
Courtney said it never entered her mind that he might want to hit on
her himself."

"Did Courtney say," Sharon began, then licked her lips and said, "Did
Paul Benedict .. . force himself on Courtney?"

"No.  I'll tell you something, Mrs.  Hays.  Sharon.  By this time
Courtney had gotten into ludes, coke, hey, she wasn't the same person
as when she came to Washington.

She acted like, doing it with this old man was way cool."

"Odd as this sounds," Sharon said, "it's better that she cooperated. If
she'd resisted she could have gotten hurt."

"You mean like, physically?"

"I mean like, physically.  So how long was Courtney seeing both of
them?"

"Couple of months.  And there were other guys.  I just hate making
Courtney sound like a slut."

Sharon said tenderly, "She wasn't a slut, Melissa.

She was inexperienced, the type the Paul Benedicts of this world prey
on.  Did Will John Benedict know that Courtney was seeing his
father?"

"Gee, this gets sicker and sicker."

Sharon had a surge of sadness.  Sheila's slant had been: Paul Benedict
likes to brag about his conquests, particularly to his son.  Puts the
boy in his place.  Sharon made her tone matter-of-fact.

"Will John knew about it, then?"

"Worse than that," Melissa said.

"Courtney told me Will John would want a blow-by-blow of what happened
between her and Paul Benedict and then, vice- versa.  The old man would
want a blow-by-blow of what happened with Will John."

"As if the two of them were comparing each other's performance?"

"Kind of like that."

"Melissa, would it surprise you to learn that Paul Benedict killed
Courtney?"

Melissa looked vacantly thoughtful.

"No.  From what she told me, the old man was more capable of it."

"He's more capable of violence," Sharon said.

"That you can bank on."

"I'll tell you something I never even told Courtney.

If she hadn't died, I wasn't going to live with her after this
semester.  I just couldn't deal with it.  I was hiding the whole thing
from my boyfriend, everybody."

Sharon watched the pretty young woman.

"I've got to level with you.  I'm probably going to ask you to tell
this whole thing to the police."

Melissa's vacant expression vanished, replaced by a look of fear.

"Won't that make them mad, that I didn't tell them before?  Those two
detectives scared the shit out of me."

"That's part of their job," Sharon said.

"If they do give you any grief, you just leave them to me.  For
Courtney's real killer to be punished, though, you're going to have to
tell them."

"Would Courtney's parents have to know the whole story?"

"They might.  The option is for Paul Benedict to get away with murder.
He's gotten away with everything else."

"How will my telling stop him?  I didn't see who killed her."

"Nor did anyone else that I know of.  It's all circumstantial, but
there's a lot of it.  Your story along with a tale this detective has
to tell could get the ball rolling.

Paul Benedict didn't only kill Courtney Lee.  If I'm right about this,
he killed his son as well.  He has an accomplice, Will John Benedict's
wife, but she's as much a pawn as everyone else Paul Benedict comes in
contact with.  I need your help, Melissa.  So does Courtney."

Melissa looked toward the table where her books lay.

"I'm going to be in great shape for finals.  When do I have to give you
my answer?"

Sharon struggled to her feet from her position low in the beanbag
chair.  She almost stumbled, but righted herself.

"I'll make a bargain with you.  In addition to your story I have some
other evidence to show the police, and I want to be certain this
private detective doesn't back out on me.  Unless I get my ducks in a
row I won't be calling on you."

"I don't know which way I'm hoping," Melissa said.

"Neither way will be too cool for me."

"I hear you."  Sharon stepped toward the door.

"I'll be in touch.  And good luck on the old exams.  Dead Week
certainly wasn't my favorite time in college."

She reached for the handle, to turn the knob.

Melissa said, "Sharon?"

Sharon turned back to her.

Melissa said, "Courtney wasn't bad.  Know that, okay?"

Sharon was suddenly hoarse.

"You heard what I said earlier.  I don't believe she was."

"She got caught up" in Washington, is all," Melissa said.

"In a lot of ways I'm glad my father's making me move closer to home.
If I keep living here, this town might eventually do something to
me."

Sharon pulled into a convenience store on her way back to the city, and
stood in freezing weather to use the pay phone.  Sheila answered on the
third ring.

Sharon said, "Hi, there.  My daughter around?"

Though she tried to remain calm, she was certain her tone was urgent.

There were a few seconds of silence.  The two single mothers had always
shared a weird sort of ESP.  Sheila finally said, "Sure, hold on."

There was a rattle over the line, more silence, then another rattle.
Melanie said, "Mom?"

"I love you, sweetheart," Sharon said.

"I love you, too, mom.  The TV Says Mr.  Benedict committed suicide."

Sharon watched her own breath fog.

"Yes."  She held the phone for five seconds without saying anything.

Melanie asked, "Is that all, Mom?"

"I suppose it is," Sharon said.

"Sometimes things happen that make me feel as if I have to talk to you,
just to tell you how much I love you.  You'd have to be a mother,
sweetheart.  See you in a couple of days, okay?"

either Sally Pong nor Cedric Hyde seemed interested in opening up an
investigation into Will John Benedict's death.  Sharon knew why they
weren't interested, but thought it wouldn't be politic to say so.

She asked them, "Won't you at least look at Mrs.

Welton's report?"

"What's the purpose?"  Hyde said.

"You're a defense team with an agenda.  Not to say your report would be
biased, but ..."  He was hunched over his desk in round-shouldered
posture.  Pong sat prim and erect across from Hyde, as did Sharon.
Lyndon Gray and Olivia Welton were in straight-backed chairs that Hyde
had dragged in from the corridor.  Gray's chair was halfway into the
hall.  Sharon wondered if Cedric Hyde's office was even smaller than
the one she' doc cupied as a prosecutor with the Dallas D.A. About a
toss-up, Sharon thought.

She said, "Biased or unbiased, it's all we've got.  I saw your Crime
Scene Unit in action, Mr.  Hyde.  A lick and a promise is giving them
the benefit."

"It's an open-and-shut suicide, Miss Hays," Hyde said.

"Given what Congressman Benedict was facing;

hey, men have shot themselves for a whole lot less.

Under the circumstances I'm surprised the CSU responded at all."

"Whether they responded or not is open to debate," Sharon said.

"They were on the scene in body, that I'll grant you."  She extended
her arm over the back of her chair.  Mrs.  Welton handed over two
copies of her report, neatly typed on a word processor in the USDA's
law library.  Sharon dropped one copy in front of Hyde, and gave the
other to Sally Pong.

Hyde made no move to pick up the report.  Pong glanced at her copy,
read the heading, and dropped the pages into her lap.

"I can see I've got you mesmerized," Sharon said.

"The blood spatter indicates that Will John Benedict was shot from at
least five feet away.  The bullet passed through his head on a downward
trajectory."

"We're not really forensics people," Pong said.

"And unless I'm mistaken, neither are your investigators."

"They were in the British Secret Service, and Mrs.

Welton did a considerable stint with the Los Angeles Police
Department."

Hyde looked to Mrs.  Welton--who smiled at the prosecutor and adjusted
the hem of her pleated skirt-then said to Sharon, "Oh?  As what?"

Sharon didn't know.  She threw Mrs.  Welton a questioning glance.

"Four years in robbery, two in homicide, sir," Mrs.

Welton said.

"And none as a criminalist, right?"  Hyde exchanged a triumphant look
with Sally Pong.

"Not officially," Mrs.  Welton said.

"Let me put it this way, Mrs.  Welton," Hyde said.

"Could you get on the witness stand and qualify as an expert?"

Mrs.  Welton lowered her lashes in defeat.

"Not really, sir."

Hyde spread his hands.

"I rest my case."

Sharon's face was getting warm.

"Well I don't rest mine.  Not yet."

Pong picked up her copy of the report and thumbed through some pages.

"Even if we accepted everything that's in here, you're forgetting the
two witnesses.

Congressman Benedict's wife and Congressman Benedict's father.  How do
you propose to get around that?"

"Cas Benedict's already admitted to me that she didn't even see the
body."

Hyde sat up straighter in interest.

"That could be a start.  Would she admit as much to our detectives?"

Sharon chewed her lower lip.  As much as she hated to admit it, Hyde
had a point.

"I doubt it," Sharon said.

"So we'd have a swearing match between you and Paul Benedict," Pong
said.

"Who, I might add, is pretty well respected in this town."

"By everyone except the people who know him," Sharon said.

Hyde thumped his desk with an air of finality.

"Let's get real here.  Miss Hays.  You're asking us to believe that
Will John Benedict's own father killed him, even though this
congressman had every reason to commit suicide.  What would be the
father's motive?  Trying to make any jury believe that someone could
kill their own son is no piece of cake to begin with.  Without evidence
of motive it would be impossible."

"I don't know his motive yet, but I'm going to.  Let me ask you this.
What kind of a father sleeps with his son's wife?"

Pong waved a hand as if batting mosquitos.

"Yeah, right.  And under questioning they're both going to say, sure,
we've been doing the nasty for years."

Sharon refused to be rattled, though it took a lot of effort.

"Of course they're not going to say that.  I've been in a few
courtrooms, folks.  I know what you have to prove, and if all I had was
my own version of what someone told me I wouldn't be sitting here."

Hyde and Pong regarded each other.  Thus far they'd been having a ball,
trashing Sharon's theories.  If she really had evidence to force them
into action, it could rain on their parade.

"For one thing," Sharon said, "I have a witness whose testimony proves
that Will John Benedict didn't murder Courtney Lee."

Hyde's brows moved closer together in a frown.

"If you have that, why didn't we see such evidence while we were
investigating the killing?"

Sharon decided that diplomacy wouldn't work any longer.

"You would have, and in short order if we were still fighting that war.
I didn't speak to the witness myself until the day before the
arraignment.  I was thinking of the best time to play the card, whether
at trial or beforehand."

"If you'd brought us something irrefutable," Hyde said, "there wouldn't
have been any trial."

"We're both in the game, Mr.  Hyde, on opposite sides of the fence. You
might have dropped the charges, sure, if you thought you couldn't
contradict my evidence, but if you thought you could, then I'd have
been exposing my hand.  Right?  Even now, with Will John no longer
among the living, for the U.S. Attorney's office to admit they were
wrong would be a bitter pill."

"One we've swallowed before."  Hyde grabbed his armrests and hoisted
himself halfway up.

"Sure, if someone holds your mouth closed and strokes your throat, the
same way I give medicine to my German shepherd.  If they leave the pill
and a glass of water on your nightstand, the pill gets flushed.

Come on, why are we sparring here?"

Hyde sank slowly back down.

"Okay, why are we?

Who is this person?"

Sharon looked over her shoulder at Gray and Welton.  Both shrugged.
Nothing ventured .. . Sharon turned back to Cedric Hyde.

"Mark C. Potter," Sharon said.

"Jesus," Hyde said, then said, "Jesus" again before adding, "What's
Mark the Shark got to do with this?"

"Cas Benedict hired him to shadow her husband.

On the night of the murder, Mark C. Potter was with Will John every
step of the way."

Hyde looked to Sally Pong for help.  Pong's dark eyes brightened in
interest.

"That was your mystery witness?  So Paul Benedict and Cassandra plotted
to murder this intern and frame Will John Benedict, then conveniently
sent this private detective along as an alibi witness^ Your story is
getting queerer and queerer, Alice."

"That it is, until you think about it," Sharon said.

"They didn't want Will John convicted, only charged.

He was their political meal ticket.  The plot was simple, really.  The
young lady needed removing.  Will John was fooling around with her,
that was documented.

So once your office gets on the scent and secures an indictment,
ta-taaa, they produce Mr.  Potter out of the woodwork and get Will John
acquitted.  They knew once that happened, you'd continue to point the
finger in Will John's direction and never look for the real killer."

Hyde thumped the table in indignation.

"That's not showing much respect for the U.S. Attorney for the District
of Columbia."

Sharon gazed steadily at the prosecutor.

"No, it isn't," Sharon said.

Sally Pong was all at once analytical.

"That was an awfully brutal killing.  Not the mark of a sane person."

"You're assuming that Paul Benedict is sane," Sharon said.

"Yes, but a bludgeoning and a shooting?"

"One committed in rage," Sharon said, "the other after the fact, to
make certain the girl was dead.  Also to point more fingers at Will
John as the killer.  You'll find that the nine-millimeter used to kill
the girl and the one with which Will John supposedly shot himself are
one and the same."

Pong and Hyde twisted around a bit.  Sharon had struck a nerve.

Sharon slowly shook her head.

"You're wanting me to open up to you, yet you're keeping secrets?  My,
my.  It was the same weapon, wasn't it?"

Hyde said, rather sheepishly, "Appears to be.  Our lab people say that
deflection could account for the downward trajectory."

"Perhaps, if Will John's skull were made of steel.

A nine-millimeter passes though bone as if it were paper."  Sharon did
her best to sound sympathetic, to keep the contempt out of her voice.

"Look, Mr.  Hyde.

Miss Pong.  I know that finding out Will John Benedict was innocent all
along will give the D.C. prosecutor's office a black eye of sorts, but
wouldn't it be worth it to convict the right person?"

Hyde leaned thoughtfully back and touched his fingertips together.

"I don't have a great deal of faith in your main witness.  Mark
Potter's given us grief before, numerous times.  Once even stood in
contempt of Congress and still wouldn't talk.  What makes you think
he'll open up now?"  .

"Congress only had jail to threaten him with.  I threatened him with
public exposure.  Jail doesn't hurt a man in his profession.  Newspaper
publicity can be fatal to him."  Sharon assumed a pleading attitude.

"Come on.  Won't you at least listen to what he has to say?"

Hyde looked at Pong.  Pong shuffled papers in her lap.  Finally, Hyde
said, "Get Detectives Brown and Toledo on the phone.  Sally.  If we're
going to make fools of ourselves, we may as well include those two.

Why should we bear the U.S. Attorney's wrath on our own?"

Sharon left Lyndon Gray and Mrs.  Welton to wait in Hyde's office while
Sally Pong scared up the two detectives, excused herself, drove to the
State Plaza Hotel, and went to her room.  She'd made careful notes on
her conversation with Mark C. Potter and wanted to take them along to
any meeting in case Potter's story should change.  If Cedric Hyde
didn't trust Potter, Sharon trusted him even less, and she'd only had
one visit with the man.  Potter had had a day to think things over and
would know that Will John had allegedly committed suicide; for all
Sharon knew, Will John's death had altered the entire picture where
Potter was concerned.

Her legal pad was in the nightstand, right where she'd left it.  She
dropped the pad into her satchel, made a quick inventory of the
satchel's contents, and dropped a miniature tape recorder in on top of
the legal pad.  She'd tried recording conversations before.

Normally the satchel muffled sound to the point that whatever came out
on the tape was unintelligible, but she had no time for a better plan;
she'd do her best to put whatever Potter had to say on record.  She
turned from the bed.  Her message light flashed.

Sharon hesitated.  She didn't have any time to return calls.  But what
if it was Sheila?  What if something had happened to Melanie?  She
sighed, picked up the phone, and brought up her voice mail.  Russell
Black, three times.  In the last message, there was an unmistakable
edge in his voice.  She scribbled the number he'd left on a pad beside
the phone.

She'd ducked out on Russ and taken Gray and Welton along, right after
her confrontation with Cas Benedict at the condo.  Her excuse had been
lame, something nebulous about having matters to clear up, and she
could tell at the time that Russ hadn't been fooled.

She'd wanted to clue her boss and mentor in, right then and there, as
to what she was up to, but Paul Benedict had been there staring daggers
over Russ's shoulder.  Russ had agreed to help Paul and Mattie Ruth
with the arrangements.  Sharon suspected that Will John's funeral plans
were the last thing on Paul Benedict's mind.

She'd never before seen the phone number Russ had left, of that she was
certain.  She glanced toward the door, feeling time slipping away, then
picked up the receiver and punched in the number.  Mattie Ruth's
cracked alto answered on the second ring.

Sharon very nearly hung up.  After several seconds' pause, she said,
"It's Sharon Hays, Mrs.  Benedict.

Russ called me and left this number."

Mattie Ruth's tone was still edged in grief.

"He's been calling all over for you, Sharon.  Where have you been?"

Sharon thought fast.  Whatever story she came up with would probably
sound just as lame as her excuse for leaving the condo.  She looked
down at her feet.

"There are legal matters to clear up, ma'am.  The court record has to
be purged and Will John's case closed.

It's a lot of red tape, which I'm sure you aren't interested in at a
time like this, but believe me it's necessary."

Mattie Ruth seemed to accept the story.

"I'll get Russell," she said.  There was a rattle over the line, thirty
seconds of silence, then a second rattle, and Russ Black said, "Where
you been, girl?"

"First, where are you, boss?  This phone number isn't on our list."

"We're at Paul and Mattie Ruth's place, in California."

Sharon held the phone away, stared at the receiver in puzzlement, then
jammed the phone against her ear and said incredulously, "Where?"

"Just a minute."  There was a rubbing noise, likely Black placing his
palm over the mouthpiece, then Black said something that was faint and
far away.

Then he said, his tone now clear as a bell, "Kalorama.

K-A--"

"I know how to spell it, boss, Kalorama is an upscale neighborhood on
the outskirts of Georgetown.

Sort of the Highland Park of Washington."  Highland Park was the
Beverly Hills of Dallas.  Russ would get the point.

Black said, "Yeah, the area's similar.  None of which explains what
you're up to."

"Are Paul and Mattie Ruth Benedict both there in the room with you?"

"Along with their daughter-in-law.  What's--" "I don't have any time,
Russ.  What I'm about to say is for your ears only.  You'll have to
fake it with the Benedicts, okay?"

Sharon listened to a faint crackling noise.  Black said, "I'm
listenin'."

"I told Mattie Ruth that I was clearing up Will John's court case,
getting a final dismissal or something.

It's a story she'll buy.  She's not a lawyer, and the tale is partially
true, the record does have to be cleared at some point.  Paul Benedict
will know better,

but he won't be able to challenge you in front of his wife.  Paul
Benedict killed Courtney Lee.  And Will John."

"Huh?  You been smokin' something' funny?"

"You're not playacting real well, boss, for the benefit of your
audience.  And no, I haven't been smoking anything.  Look, I have to
go.  I'll be out of pocket for another couple of hours.  Give me the
address where you are."  Sharon readied a pen over the pad by the
phone.

Black told her to hold on, then, his voice faint, asked Mattie Ruth for
her address.  He repeated the address to Sharon.  She wrote it down.

"I'll be there as soon as I can.  Go right on with the funeral
arrangements as if nothing was wrong."

"Sharon ..."

"You'll have to bear with me, old boss.  For now, there's nothing more
I can say."

here were too many to fit inside a single government four-door sedan,
so Lyndon Gray and Mrs.

Welton got in with Cedric Hyde and Sally Pong while Sharon rode with
the cops.  She sat in the front passenger seat as Detective Ginny
Toledo drove.  Detective Isaac Brown hunkered dead-center in back,
looking cramped and uncomfortable.  Sharon wondered briefly where the
enormous black cop shopped for his clothes.

Brown would be tough to fit; his waist was a thirty two thirty-four at
the most, but anything that would accommodate his shoulders would have
to come from the Big & Tall.

As they cruised down wide Pennsylvania Avenue with the Capitol Building
dead ahead, Isaac Brown said gruffly, "At least we're doing one thing
right.

Crashing in on the guy."

Sharon threw a curious glance over her shoulder.

"No one called to be certain Mr.  Potter is in?  I could have, I've got
his number."

"It would be a waste of time."  Toledo steered into the center lane,
passed a slow-moving bobtail, then wheeled back curbside.

"You'll have to take our word for it, Miss Hays.  We've been dealing
with Mark the Shark for years."

"Guy's got forty-seven different kinds of caller IDs," Brown said.

"Plus two or three different phone numbers.

If you're not somebody he wants to talk to, he just don't answer.  Even
if we do the deal where our call comes up "Anonymous' on his screen, he
won't answer that."

"Just so long as he recalls the story he told me the other day." Sharon
looked up at the Capitol dome.

Toledo made a right turn in front of the reflecting pool.

Brown said, "He won't."

Sharon wriggled testily in her seat.

"You hope he won't, is what you mean."

Toledo looked in the rearview and exchanged a look with Brown.  Toledo
ran her little finger along her lower lip.

"We'll talk out of school here.  Miss Hays.  About Sally Pong and
Cedric Hyde, you're right.  They want this case to go away.  Anything
that might embarrass them, show they charged the wrong man, they'd just
as soon avoid.  To Ike and me, it makes no difference if we're working
on the Will John Benedict case or a murdered hooker in the Southeast
Sector.  Our paychecks are the same, either way.  But Mark Potter is a
royal pain, the type we'd all be better off staying away from."

"Give you an example," Brown said.

"Two, three years ago I ran across Potter, who just happened to be
following this senator who just happened to be buying dope from a
dealer who we just happened to know had killed this guy.  Potter gave
me a load of information that could have convicted this dealer, but we
would've had to have him testify.  Potter wouldn't come forward, no
way, and we had to drop the case.

In Potter's mind, there's no Number Two.  Only him, Number One."

"I could see that," Sharon said.

"He opened up to me only after I threatened to have Rita Carboneau put
him in her column."

"Yeah," Brown said, "and five'll get you ten he's talked to Carboneau
since you've seen him.  He's made her a deal to drop a tidbit or two
her way, inside stuff about some politician in his file, in return for
her not printing anything about Mark.  With Will John Benedict dead.
Potter's not going to give us the time of day."

Sharon sighed in disappointment.

"If you're right, Paul Benedict might've gotten away with murder.  Two
murders.  Listen, if this Potter is that slippery, what makes you think
he's in?  He might be making it a point to be gone for the day.  He
knows good and well I'll be calling on him."

"He's in," Toledo said.

"You sound awfully certain of that," Sharon said.

Toledo had circled the Capitol, and now headed out Independence Avenue
toward the western side of the beltway.

"We have to take measures with this man.

We have, let's call them friends, who work in the same building.
Potter's car is in the lot and his office light is on."

"You keep that close of a tab?"  Sharon couldn't believe it.

"With Mark the Shark it's a good idea," Toledo said.  Potter's lice.
I've got nothing against his profession, if you want to call it that,
but he takes either side of the street.  Soaks the poor women for
information about their husbands, then sells the same information to
people like Rita Carboneau.  There is nothing Potter won't do for a
buck.  For years he's been our Moriarity.  Ours, the FBI's, everyone in
D.C. law enforcement."

"Oh," Sharon said.

"Huh?"  Brown leaned forward and put his head in between the two
women.

"Our what?"

Toledo gave Sharon a knowing wink.

"Moriarity, Ike," Toledo said.

"Arthur Conan Doyle.  Moriarity was Sherlock Holmes's nemesis."

Brown scratched his head.

"Arthur who?"

Sharon softly laughed.

"She could have said, "Our Jerry Jones."  The owner of the Dallas
Cowboys."

"Oh," Brown said, "Yeah, Potter's a really bad guy."

"I think that was the point," Sharon said.

"One way or the other.  Detective Brown.  You get the Jerry Jones
connection, huh?"

It was after five and getting dark when Sharon entered Mark C. Potter's
building to find Gray, Welton, Pong, and Hyde waiting in the corridor.
Detective Toledo following close on Sharon's heels.  Isaac Brown
brought up the rear, slouching in, and relaxed in a corner close to the
elevators.  Sharon thought that Brown looked right at home, as if he
leaned against a lot of walls.  Many policemen did.  Cedric Hyde
thumbed the elevator button, stood back, and folded his arms.  The
whole gang piled into the car and rode up to Potter's floor.

Most of the offices in the building were closed for the day; Potter's
door was the only one with light showing through.  Toledo knocked
softly, waited, then tried the handle.  The handle turned easily with a
click;

Toledo opened the portal like an usher and stood aside.

Potter's reception area was brightly lit but silent;

the heating unit made a soft hissing sound.  Garish orange cloth chairs
sat beside a hideous green sofa, and on an end table was a pile of
magazines.  God, like a doctor's office, Sharon thought.  She had yet
to see a visitor in Potter's office, and wondered who would take the
time to thumb through the magazines to begin with; she imagined that
Potter's customers were for the most part incognito, and hurried in and
out wearing dark sunglasses with scarves tied over their heads.  The
prosecutors and the detectives fidgeted about.  Sharon nodded to Lyndon
Gray, and indicated the half-open entry to Potter's inner sanctum.

The big Englishman shouldered his way through, then halted just
inside.

"Olivia," he said.

"Come here, please.  I'd be careful not to touch anything, ladies and
gentlemen."

A cold knot formed in the pit of Sharon's stomach and stayed there.

Mrs.  Welton went in Potter's office and stood beside Gray.  She
reached in her handbag, brought out a camera, and there was a sudden
flash as she took a picture.

Then the detectives were in Potter's office as well, with Hyde and Pong
following close behind.  Sally

Pong said, her voice an octave higher than normal, "Christ Almighty."

Sharon sighed in resignation.  She went resolutely through the doorway
to join the group, three men and three women in a semicircle, holding a
meeting with a dead man.

Mark C. Potter had passed from this life in the saddle, or in his case
on the phone, with a file open in front of him and a box of vanilla
wafers at his elbow.

He'd been using the cellular; the instrument lay catawampus with its
antenna extended and the light on Potter's answering machine
blink-blink-blinking on the credenza.  Three photos were face-up at the
front of the file folder; from Sharon's upside-down angle, the naked
man and woman in the pictures looked odd.

Potter was slumped forward in his chair with his head resting on his
blotter pad, turned onto its right cheek.

There was a small round hole dead-center in his forehead.

No nine-millimeter this one, Sharon thought.

Mrs.  Welton walked quickly to one side and photographed the body from
a different angle, then crossed over to stand directly behind Potter
and aim her camera at his back.

Cedric Hyde said stiffly, "Stop that."

The camera flashed a third time.  Mrs.  Welton stepped forward, lifted,
then dropped Potter's arm.  His hand flopped down on the desk, loose as
a goose.

"Rigor's come and gone, Lyndon," Mrs.  Welton said.

Gray bent from the waist and studied the corpse's head.

"Blood's completely dried as well.  Been at least some hours, eh? Check
the times on those answering machine messages."

Mrs.  Welton turned to the credenza and reached for the playback
button.

Hyde said, furiously now, "Dammit, I said stop that."

Welton depressed the button, and fast-forwarded through several calls.
The tape was full, and the computerized female voice announced that the
last message had come in at 10:46 a.m.

Just about the time we were in the courtroom, Sharon thought.  And just
about the time Will John died.  She stepped forward and said quickly,
"Small caliber, Mr.  Gray.  Probably a twenty-two, no more than a
twenty-five.  Make a note of that."

Sally Pong snapped to.  She strode quickly to stand between Sharon and
the body.  Cedric Hyde went around the desk and shooed Mrs.  Welton
away.  Welton went to the end of the desk and stood with her head
cocked in an inquisitive angle.  Sharon suspected that if she were to
give the order, the Brits would draw pistols, hold the others at bay,
and finish their inspection of the crime scene.

Sharon said softly, "Not now, Mrs.  Welton.  Mr.

Gray.  I'd love to, but no."

Both Brits relaxed and looked disappointed.

Sally Pong spoke with authority.

"Secure the crime scene, detectives.  All civilians out in the hall."

Sharon looked from Welton to Gray, then back again.

"I think she means us," Sharon said.

Brown and Toledo stepped in front of the desk, doing their jobs,
neither seeming particularly enthusiastic about it.

Sally Pong extended a hand in Welton's direction.

"I'll have that camera now."

Welton calmly dropped the camera into her handbag.

"In all respect, mum.  I wouldn't try to take it."

Pong turned furiously to Isaac Brown.

"We'll have that camera.  Detective," Pong said.

The big cop seemed amused.

"Can't do that, Miss Pong.  Against regs.  We can secure the scene, but
the regs say nothing about taking personal property from civilians.  I
don't see how we could stretch it, that the camera was potential
evidence.  It wasn't even in the room when the murder happened."  He
glanced at the corpse.

Welton took her cue and stepped quickly to the doorway.

"We've been ordered off the scene, Lyndon."

Gray politely cleared his throat.

"That we have.

Good day, people," He joined Welton, and the two went out through the
reception area.

Cedric Hyde stepped up and pointed at Sharon.

"I'm holding you personally responsible for those pictures."

Sharon put on her innocent face.

"Responsible how, sir?"

"That they don't fall into the wrong hands."

"Oh, come on, Mr.  Hyde.  They're pictures of a body.  Your own Crime
Scene Unit will take the same photos.  How can they possibly be any
different?"

"That's not what I mean.  Miss Hays," Hyde said.

"The photos will show the exact position of the victim.

Something only the killer can know."

Sharon looked to Pong, who stared defiantly back, then returned her
attention to Hyde.

"We have no intention of turning them over to the newspapers, if that's
what you're getting at.  In fact, so long as the investigation proceeds
at a rapid clip, I doubt you'll hear from us again."

Hyde placed his hands at his waist.

"I resent that implication."

Sharon stood her ground.

"What implication is that?"

"That we'd be less than diligent."

Sharon nodded toward the victim.  Mark C. Potter, dead with a half
smile on his face.

"Let's face it," Sharon said.

"Mr.  Potter wasn't Mr.  Popularity around the beltway.  I'm standing
here without a shred of evidence, but I know who killed him.  Not who
pulled the trigger, possibly, but who's responsible.  And so do you."

Pong butted in.

"With this particular victim there could be any number of suspects.
Hundreds.  Even thousands."

"Exactly my point.  He talks to me.  He's Will John Benedict's alibi
witness.  I made the mistake of telling Will John that I'd visited with
Mr.  Potter, and I'm sure he relayed the information to his wife and
Dear Old Dad.  Will John turns up dead, and now so does this guy.  Two
plus two."

"Can equal five," Pong said.

"Can equal anything.

Until we do a thorough rundown, we just don't know."

"And your thorough rundown might take years," Sharon said.

"Which is why we're going to, us and our investigators along with
anyone else we can think of, be behind you fanning your bottoms.  This
won't go away, folks.  If you're thinking about sweeping this under the
rug, filing the case under "Unsolved Mysteries' of the day, forget
it."

Isaac Brown uncomfortably cleared his throat.  Ginny Toledo gazed at
Sharon with respect.

Cedric Hyde's voice quavered, like that of a man who was under
pressure.

"We have no more to say until our lab people can go over the scene."

"And wait for orders," Sharon said.

"Until you find out how deeply Mr.  Gregory Campisi wants you to bury
this thing."

"That's an accusation.  You're saying the U.S. Attorney for the
District of Columbia would impede a murder investigation?"

"The duly appointed," Sharon said.

"He'll do whatever the Democratic Party wants.  You live in Coverup
City, Mr.  Hyde.  You know it, and so do I. Will John Benedict's dead,
but his case isn't.  And won't be, if I can see to it."

Hyde seemed on the verge of apoplexy.

"I've already said, civilians out in the hall.  You hang around until
the CSUs arrive.  Then I can have the detectives take you back."

Sharon looked contemptuously around the room.

"Don't bother with that.  We have the cab fare.  Unless we're under
arrest, my investigators and I will go it alone."  She stepped toward
the exit, then stopped and turned.

"And I wouldn't try arresting us, Mr.  Hyde.

We're not material witnesses to anything.  And Rita Carboneau's slant
on why you were keeping us under lock and key?  That's something your
supervisors wouldn't like to read."

* * * Sharon and the Brits rode in virtual silence to the parking lot
at 500 Indiana, and likewise had little to say on the drive to
Washington's exclusive Kalorama section in the rented Lincoln Town Car.
Mrs.  Welton sat in the front passenger seat with her hands folded in
her lap while Lyndon Gray drove.  Sharon watched the scenery through
the backseat side window.  Gray remarked as they passed DuPont Circle
that there'd been some new construction on the circle since his time in
D.C. with the British Secret Service.  Sharon said that was interesting
without really meaning it.

Mrs.  Welton remained silent, apparently busy with her thoughts.

The Benedicts' Washington residence was a mammoth Tudor structure with
a fountain in front and a circular drive.  Twin blue Mercedeses were
parked near the fountain; Sharon stopped in front of a red brick porch
and killed the engine.  She stared in silence as the Lincoln's
headlights illuminated a giant maple tree that grew at the side of the
house.  The wind had come up; the branches quivered and rattled.
Snowflakes whirled around the maple's trunk like confetti.

The automatic sentinel extinguished the Lincoln's headlamps.

She'd performed with a fair amount of bravado at Mark C. Potter's
office, enough to cause the USDA not to drag his feet on finding
Potter's killer--or at least to see that the police pretended to
investigate, even if their hearts weren't in it--but the reality was
that Paul Benedict had likely won.  When Sharon had grilled Cas
Benedict in her bedroom, Cas's responses had been in the form of body
language.  Her expressions, tone of voice, and demeanor had said that
Sharon had struck a nerve, but in truth the merry widow hadn't revealed
a thing that would be useful in a courtroom.  Melissa Rudolph's
testimony would show only that Paul Benedict had been carrying on an
affair with Courtney Lee.  Father and son passing a female intern back
and forth might be juicy tabloid material, but was next to worthless as
evidence in a murder trial.  Without Mark C. Potter to place Paul
Benedict on the scene after Courtney's disappearance from the condo, in
response to Will John's phone call, there was no case.  Will John would
have a grand funeral at which the Benedict clan could gather and grieve
for all the world to see, and then Paul and Mattie Ruth could continue
hand in hand through the corridors of political power.  What 'the
future held for Cas Benedict, Sharon hadn't the slightest.  She
imagined that Paul Benedict would store his former daughter-in-law
away, somewhere down in Texas, where she could stand ready to service
him at his will.

Lyndon Gray pushed open his door and stepped out on the circular drive.
The Benedict porch was bathed in light from a flood lamp.

"Getting colder, I think," Gray said.

"Be ready for a numbing blast of air.  ladies."

Sharon reached for the backseat handle.

"Thanks for the warning, Mr.  Gray.  And I'll button up my coat, thank
you.  But to tell the truth, in my present sate of mind I doubt I'll
feel a thing."

A uniformed maid opened the thick oak front door and led the way
through an entry hall the size of the

Astrodome.  The floor was polished hardwood, and down the center of the
corridor ran a row of ten foot Persian rugs.  They skirted a floating
staircase and headed for the rear of the house.  The maid's starched
apron swished and her shoes made little squeaking noises.  Sharon
followed close, with Gray and Welton on her heels.

They went through a living room featuring a walnut grand piano and a
bearskin rug, and entered a study with floor-to-ceiling bookcases on
either side.  Rolling ladders were attached to the bookcases, which
were filled with D.C. statutes, red-bound copies of the U.S.

Code, and every research volume known to the legal profession.  Sharon
imagined that Paul Benedict's law library had cost a fortune.  Straight
ahead past two computer work stations was a seating area, chairs and
sofas clustered around a rough-hewn coffee table.  Paul Benedict and
Russ Black occupied two of the chairs, and Mattie Ruth Benedict was on
the sofa.  Cas Benedict, wearing pleated slacks and a white blouse, was
leaned back in a recliner with her feet up.  The maid led the newcomers
to the seating area, excused herself, and left the way she'd come.
Sharon felt suddenly all alone.

Black, ever the gentleman, climbed to his feet.

"You get your business accomplished?"

Sharon was stumped for an instant.  Business?  Oh, yeah, business, the
cover story she'd made up for Russ to tell.  She said, "The case
against Will John is dismissed, boss."  She mentally crossed her
fingers.

Paul Benedict rose as well.

"Can I get you some refreshment?"  He wore a silk smoking jacket along
with a muffler, and confidently returned Sharon's gaze.

He reached for a dinner bell.

Sharon deadpanned it.  At that instant her hate for Paul Benedict
tightened her throat.  This was a man who'd gone through life taking
women as he pleased-including by force--cheating on his wife, screwing
his daughter-in-law, and now had murdered his son.  And was going to
get away with all of it, and continue to live the Good Life.

"No, thank you," Sharon said.

Mattie Ruth had calmed down, though her eyes were slightly bloodshot
from crying.

"Russell has been invaluable, Sharon.  There's a memorial service here
in Washington, another in Baytown the day after.  Funeral at the First
Methodist in downtown Austin, burial in the North Austin Cemetery in
the family plot.  My son would be pleased."

Sharon lowered her lashes.

"I'm sure he would, Mrs.

Benedict."  She looked up.  Cas watched her from the recliner, not
saying anything.  The two locked gazes for an instant.  Cas looked down
at her lap.

"An' it's time for us to be goin'," Black said.  He bent, took Mattie
Ruth's hands in his own.

"I'll be prayin' for the both of you, Mattie."

Mattie Ruth hoisted herself up to her feet and kissed Russell Black on
the cheek.

"Will John would be beholden to ya.  You comin' by tomorrow?"

"Got an early flight out.  Things at the office.  I'll be seem you all
in Austin, day of the funeral."

Paul Benedict stepped grandly forward.

"We'll see you out, then.  Come on, Mattie.  Cassandra."  He extended a
hand toward the recliner.  Cas accepted, gripped Paul Benedict's hand,
and pulled herself up.

Her index finger brushed her father-in-law's palm.

Sharon didn't miss the gesture.  The flesh at the nape of her neck
quivered and crawled.

As Welton and Gray prepared to usher Russell Black and Mattie Ruth to
the exit, Sharon stepped quickly up and stopped them.  She said to
Black, "I'll need to take a minute, boss.  Something for Professor
Benedict and Cassandra.  Their ears only."

Paul and Cas Benedict exchanged a nervous glance.

Mattie Ruth's forehead tightened in alarm.

Sharon fondly squeezed the senator's arm.

"Just some legal business, Mrs.  Benedict, nothing for you to worry
yourself over."  She smiled at Russ.

"Just some papers, boss, someone needs to sign.  I'll join you all out
front in a minute."

Mattie Ruth seemed to accept the lie, and allowed Russ to take her arm
and lead her out of the library.

The U.S. Senator from Texas was all at once just another grief-stricken
mother, her regal posture slumping.

As she went through the doorway she leaned her head on Russ's shoulder.
Welton and Gray followed; Gray threw Sharon a look over his shoulder.
Did she need him?  Sharon answered with an imperceptible shake of her
head.  The foursome disappeared into the corridor, leaving Sharon,
Paul, and Cas alone.  Just us, the gruesome threesome, Sharon thought.
She faced the two.

Cas dropped Paul Benedict's hand as if it were red hot.

Paul Benedict had the look of a trapped man.

"What is it.  Miss Hays?  There can't possibly be anything for me or
Cassandra to sign.  I also doubt there were any pressing matters for
you at the courthouse this afternoon.  I suspect you've been stirring
up trouble."

Sharon had acted on impulse, without a plan.  Now that she had these
two alone, she didn't know what to say.  She squared her posture.

"To sign?  No, that was a ruse.  Unless it's a handwritten confession,
of course.  You folks interested?"  She smiled.

Cas Benedict's lips parted.  She looked terrified.  A pulse jumped in
Paul Benedict's forehead.

"Cassandra has already told me about your ridiculous accusations this
afternoon," he said.

"I don't know where you get your opinions.  Miss Hays, but if you have
no proof you should keep them to yourself."

Sharon had had about enough.  She pictured Will John Benedict, and a
sudden realization came to her.

"Good for him," she said.

"It won't help him much at this point, but jolly' good for him."

Cas looked to Paul Benedict in confusion.  The ex law professor showed
puzzlement of his own.

"Good for who?"  he said.

"Why, Will John, of course.  For once in his life he stood up to you,
didn't he?  It got him killed, but good for him."

Paul Benedict put an arm around Cas.

"The woman has no shame, Cassandra.  My son not in his grave as yet,
and she .. ."  He trailed off.

Sharon looked behind her, toward the exit, then faced the couple once
more.

"Put a sock in it, professor.

We're all alone here, just the three of us.  I'm not wearing a wire,
though I'm not about to strip down in front of a sleazo like you to
prove it.  But it's the only answer.  You had the perfect plan to kill
Courtney

Lee and shut her up.  There are men in Congress who will be ever
grateful to you.  Then you talked Will John into taking the fall, and
had Potter the Public Eye all ready to give him an alibi and let all of
you off the hook.  That should be the ultimate ego trip for you, that
you could bully your son into faking guilt to murder to protect you.
Will John had no reason on earth to commit suicide, because you'd
convinced him he'd be acquitted and could go merrily on his way to the
White House eventually.  In fact, once the prosecutors heard Potter's
story, they probably would have dropped the charges.  So what happened
to screw up your plans, professor?  For some reason Will John was going
to expose you, otherwise you wouldn't have killed him.  The fact that
he was your flesh and blood didn't mean beans to you, did it?  Did Will
John find out you were screwing his wife?  Your own daughterin-law?
God, you are so ... fucking .. . sick ..."

Paul Benedict remained expressionless, but Cas was feeling the
pressure.  Her chin sagged.

Sharon zeroed in on Cas.

"Come on, old school chum, what happened?  Did Will John find out by
accident, or did you rub it in his face in order to put him down?  It
could be either one."

Cas's face rearranged itself like Play-Dough.  Her expression was all
at once petulant, like a schoolgirl's.

"That's coming from one who slept around for her law school grades, of
course."  She looked to Paul Benedict for support.

Benedict averted his gaze to the far wall.

Sharon sucked in breath.  Ten years she'd been waiting.

She showed Paul Benedict a broad grin.

"What's this, professor, no comeback?  Cas has already relayed your lie
to me, that I slept with you voluntarily back in law school.  I'll bet
she forgot to mention that when she was describing our little chat this
afternoon.  You and I both know it's a bare-faced freaking lie, but
whatever turns you on."

Cas looked up at Paul "Don't let the bitch talk to you that way,
darling."

In spite of the seriousness of the moment, Sharon nearly laughed out
loud.

"Darling?  Darling?  That just takes the cake."  She put her nose an
inch from Cas's nose, and pointed at Paul Benedict.

"He tried to rape me, Cassandra, and in the process beat me half
unconscious and crushed my septum.  Which he paid to have repaired,
which accounts for my current goddess like countenance, haven't you
noticed?  And yes, after that he made law school life easier for me,
but not for any so-called sexual favors.  He did it to keep my mouth
shut, and I've regretted accepting his offer ever since.

If I could go back and put this bastard in jail where he belongs, I'd
give up law school, my career, and would have been glad to work as a
waitress to this very day.  If I had, Will John would still be standing
here."

Cas's eyes grew big and round.  She looked up.

"Paul," she said softly.

Benedict tried his best.

"I think you'd better leave now.  Miss Hays."

Sharon was staring at Cassandra Mason Benedict.

Paul Benedict said, more sternly this time, "Miss Hays, I said--"
"Jesus Christ, Cassandra."  Sharon felt a sudden tightness in her
chest.

"Jesus Christ," she said again.

"He talked you into killing Potter, didn't he?"

Cas sagged visibly.  She loosened her grip on Paul Benedict's arm.

"Of course," Sharon said, "that's the only way it could be.  Once he
decided Will John had to go, then Potter became the only link between
him and Courtney Lee.  No wonder you didn't see Will John's body, Cas.
While the naughty professor here was murdering his son, you were out by
the beltway, shooting Potter.

I'll say this for you, Cassandra, your victim was the more despicable
of the two."  She looked to Benedict, then to Cassandra, and back
again.  My God, what a woman will do for her man, huh?"

Paul Benedict's face twisted in anger.  He pointed to the exit.

"Out.  Out, Miss Hays.  You have no proof of what you're saying, so go.
Leave us in peace."

"Don't worry."  Sharon took a step as if to leave, then stopped in her
tracks.  She turned back.

"Potter could do more than just place you at Will John's condo,
couldn't he?  Sure, no way could those two joggers have mistaken Will
John for you, even in the dark, because there's too much difference in
age.  But Potter could pass for Will John, at least closely enough to
confuse the witnesses.  Potter was about as sleazy as you are, and you
paid him to dispose of the body and then concoct the lie to tell me.
Not half bad, even for a maniac.  But you've forgotten one link,
professor.

Potter wasn't the only link between you and Courtney, was he?"

Benedict's expression softened.  He chewed his lower lip as realization
dawned.

Cas showed terror.

"What's she saying, Paul?"

"Why, the roommate," Sharon said.

"Melissa Rudolph.

Don't even think about killing her, professor, because as soon as I
leave here I'm getting her on the phone."

Benedict put on a front.

"Kill?  What's wrong with you, Miss Hays?  I haven't killed anyone and
I'm not going to.  This is too ridiculous for words."

Sharon and Paul Benedict stared at each other.  The air crackled
between them.

Cas said softly, "What roommate, Paul?"

Air came out of Sharon's lungs in a gasp.  She looked on Cas with
pity.

"Jesus Christ," Sharon said.

"You poor dear.  Do you think you're the only female this bastard has
been fucking?  He's sick, Cassandra, and has hit on every woman his
son's ever been interested in.  That's why he tried to rape me, years
ago, and that's why he's been doing it with you.  And that's why he was
screwing Courtney Lee.  God, she was young enough to be his freaking
granddaughter."

Cas gaped at Paul in disbelief.

"Courtney?"  she said.

"Courtney?"

"Oh, Jesus," Sharon said.

"He told you he was protecting Will John and his political career,
didn't he?

Don't you know by now, Cassandra?  The only thing this bastard is
interested in protecting is himself."

From far in the background, Russell Black said, "Sharon?"

Sharon turned.  Her boss and mentor had reentered the library and stood
halfway between her and the hallway.

"Come on, Sharon.  We're waitin' out here."

"Coming, old boss," Sharon said.

"I was just saying good-bye."  She smiled at Paul and Cassandra
Benedict.

Cas seemed as if she were gasping for breath.

Sharon said, "I so enjoyed our little talk, folks.  And good luck in
the future.  You two have a lot to look forward to, you know?"

us sell Black was as mad as Sharon had ever seen him.

"We're in the defense business, girl," he said.

"Not the accusin' business.  And accusin' a man like Paul Benedict is
about as crazy as anything I ever heard of."

They were in the elevator at the State Plaza Hotel, going up.  Black
had fumed in silence on the ride back from the Benedict home, but as
soon as Lyndon Gray had dropped them off in front and Mrs.  Welton had
ridden with Gray to the hotel parking lot, the older lawyer had
descended on Sharon like a ton of bricks.

She'd answered him thus far with a series of yes sirs and no sirs, and
felt as if she might have to bite her tongue if the barrage went on
much longer.  When Russell Black was wound up, he could show the widest
of ornery streaks.

Black stood with his head down and his hands thrust into his pockets,
facing the door as the light flashed on each passing level.  "

"Fore we got this case, I didn' even know you and the Benedicts were
acquainted.  I don't know what Paul did to get on the wrong side o'
you, but it couldn' be enough to go callin' him a killer.  That was his
boy, Sharon.  His flesh and blood."

Sharon leaned a shoulder against the wall.  The bell dinged and the
doors slid open.  She stalked past Black without a word and headed for
her room.

Black came out in the corridor.

"I'm not finished, young lady."

Sharon planted her toe, closed her eyes, and whirled around.

"Yes you are, boss.  Right now.  Yes you are."

She opened her eyes and a tear rolled down her cheek.

Black gaped at her.  She'd stunned him speechless.

Finally he managed, "What's got into you?"

Sharon walked closer.  She respected Russell Black more than anyone.
She absolutely hated crossing him.

But she had to make him understand.  She regarded her boss and mentor
thoughtfully.

"What makes you think you know him?"

Black seemed puzzled.

"We go back a quarter of a century."

"As acquaintances.  You've worked a case or two with him.  That doesn't
mean you know him.  He did it, Russ."  She turned and started down the
hall.

Black followed after her, matching her stride for stride.

"What makes you think you do?"

Sharon kept her head down and continued on.

"Do what?"

"Know him.  Outside o' class, I made it a point not to know any of my
professors."

Sharon almost laughed.

"So did I. This acquaintance was forced on me one night.  Come on,
boss, don't make me elaborate."

"It's not my nature to pry," Black said.

"But in this instance I feel like I have to.  The man just lost his
son, Sharon."

Sharon paused, took another step, then stopped and uttered a long
sigh.

"Don't make me, Russ."

Black stood in the hallway.

"Don't make you what?"

Sharon gave a little shrug.

"Make me go on and on about it.  I have no proof.  For all practical
purposes you may as well be right.  If he did it, he's gotten away with
it.  So it's over.  I got some pleasure out of confronting him, that
I'll confess.  But why belabor the point?"

"Why not belabor it?"  Black said.

"You've thrown one helluva kink in any relationship we might of had
with that family."

"You might've had.  I never had.  I never wanted to have.  As far as
I'm concerned you and Paul Benedict can become fishing buddies if
that's your bag, but include me out.  Permanently.  I have to go to
bed, boss."

She continued on.

Black watched her go.  There was worry in his voice.

"This idn like you, Sharon."

She stopped a final time.

"No, it isn't, and I'm glad you know it.  If I can be so against
someone, there must be ample reason.  Ever think about that?"

Black nervously cleared his throat.

Sharon said, "What's done is done, and life goes on, I learned that
when I was much younger than I am now.  Good night, boss.  My emotions
don't run away with me, not ever.  If I hate someone there's a reason.
Just give me credit, okay?"

* * *

Sharon burst into tears as she entered her room.

She couldn't hold back any longer.  She pitched facedown on the bed
like a teenager and pounded the mattress.  In seconds, the bedspread
was wet with tears.

She'd spent nearly a decade trying to erase Paul Benedict's image from
her mind; the attack on that horrible night in Austin, the cover-up,
her own feelings of guilt, but sometimes when she was alone that
dreadful period in her life came back to haunt her.

And now in one short week, through no fault of her own, the past had
come roaring up to slap her in the face.  And he'd won again.  The
bastard had won.

The .. . fucking .. . bastard had .. .

She sat up, trembling, and hugged herself.  Be calm, she thought.  She
eyed the phone, wondering if Sheila was still awake.  Sheila would talk
to her, make her feel better.  Calm?  Sharon Hays wondered if she'd
ever be calm again, for the rest of her life.

As she stared at the telephone, it rang.

At first the noise didn't get through to her.  What's that ringing
sound?  she thought.  She dug in her purse for a Kleenex.  She blew her
nose.

The phone rang again.

It's him, she thought.  Paul Benedict, calling to taunt her.  He'd
laugh at her, an insane hollow chuckle that would echo in her ears
until the end of time.  Until she lay right down and .. .

The phone rang a third time.

Answer it, she thought.  No, on second thought, don't answer it.  Let
the freaking phone ring off the wall, she didn't want to talk to
anyone, maybe not ever again.  She would sit here until the phone
stopped ringing.  Until whoever was bothering her had gone away.

She let out a gasp which was almost a sob and grabbed up the receiver.
She put the phone to her ear and tightly shut her eyes.

"Hello?"  Her voice sounded faint and far away.

"Sharon?"  The homespun drawl and rich female tenor were
unmistakable.

Sharon gazed wildly around the room, as if searching for help where
there was none.

"This is Sharon," she finally said.

"It's Mattie Ruth Benedict.  Can we talk?"

Sharon tried to compose herself.  The task was impossible.

She beat her fist against her thigh.

"Yes?"

"First of all, is Russell there with you?"

Russell?  Russell who?  Oh, yes, Russell.

"No, he isn't," Sharon said.

"Good.  I wouldn't want him to hear this.  I really wouldn't want
anybody to hear this, but I'm afraid I need a lawyer.  I started to
call the police, but I read somewhere I'm not supposed to talk to them
without my attorney.  I don't trust any Washington lawyers, never have,
so I'm callin' you."

A short time earlier, Mattie Ruth Benedict had been grief-stricken,
sobbing out of control.  Now she was oddly calm.  She sounded almost
like a robot.  As if she was in shock.

Sharon's chin tilted in curiosity.

"What's wrong, Mrs.  Benedict?"

"I suppose you'd better drop by the house, Sharon.

As quick as you can.  I can't give the details and I'm not sure if I
remember them all clearly myself.  But you know my husband?  And my
daughter-in-law?"

Sharon gripped the receiver until her knuckles were white.

"Cassandra and .. . Paul.  Yes, I know them."

"Well they're layin' here dead, Sharon.  And I'm pretty sure I killed
them both.  Please come by.  Do.

And I'll be beholden if you won't waste any time."

he upstairs study in the Benedicts' Kalorama mansion overlooked a rose
garden covered in snow.

A floodlight illuminated the garden, a patch of stark white lawn, and a
greenhouse roof; the background scenery faded away into midnight
darkness.  Sharon wondered why she wasn't tired at this hour.  She
turned away from the window as she made up her mind.

Cassandra Mason Benedict wore the same white blouse and pleated slacks
she'd had on earlier; if it hadn't been for the body's sprawled-out
position and Cas's expression of death, the splashes of red across the
front of the blouse might have been something she'd spilled.  Her
eyelids were at half-mast.  One of the bullets had penetrated just
below her left breast.

Sharon wondered idly how long it had taken for her heart to stop
pumping.

Paul Benedict had dressed to go out since Sharon had seen him; in place
of the smoking jacket and muffler was a navy blazer over a red vest. He
sat behind his desk, and if it hadn't been for the small hole in the
center of his forehead he might've been napping.

His head was back against the high cushion of his swivel chair.  Sharon
walked around and gave her old law prof a push from behind.  His head
sagged limply forward, his chin resting on his chest.  There was no
exit wound, no red stain on the leather upholstery.  So the bullet was
still rattling around in there among the legal theories, textbook civil
remedies, moral indiscretions, and evil plans.  Sharon grimly smiled.

"We shouldn't be touching things, miss," Lyndon Gray said.

"You're already in enough hot water with the locals, I fear."

Sharon watched them, the proper British couple standing side by side in
the doorway.  She'd caught them in their hotel rooms before they'd
undressed for bed; Gray wore a dark suit and Mrs.  Welton was in her
nanny costume.

"I believe Miss Hays may have something else in mind, Lyndon," Mrs.
Welton said.

She looked impassively at one corpse, then at the other.

Sharon's smile remained in place.  She came pensively around the desk,
went between Welton and Gray, then paused in the exit.

"I'll only be a minute, folks," she said.

"Secure the scene, or whatever it is that they say."

Mattie Ruth Benedict was in the downstairs den, seated on a stool,
leaning on the magnificent grand piano.  She wore pale blue lounging
pajamas.  A bourbon on the rocks sat before her on a coaster; Sharon
had poured a stiff one, and noted with some satisfaction that Mattie
Ruth had managed to get about half of the liquor down.  The senator's
face was an expressionless mask, her eyes staring vacantly at
nothing.

Sharon stepped over the bearskin rug, came up close to Mattie Ruth, and
leaned one hip against the edge of the piano.

"By the numbers.  Senator," she said.

"One more time."

Mattie Ruth turned calmly to her.

"The details won't matter once everything comes out in the wash.

Idn't it enough that I did it?"

Sharon said tenderly, "It's not enough for me.

Please, Senator, one more time.  We're trying to put things in
perspective here."

Mattie Ruth was in another world, detached, as if she were the audience
and the room were a stage.

Sharon wished that Sheila were here.  Mattie Ruth said in a monotone,
"Paul gave me a sedative.  He told me that he was takin' Cassandra home
and he'd be back in a little bit."

"What kind of sedative?"  The lawyer in Sharon came out; she was
thinking defenses, under the influence, things like that.

"A prescription, I don't know the name.  But I didn' swallow the
stuff."

"He didn't watch you take it?"

Mattie Ruth shook her head.

"He left a glass of water and two tablets on the nightstand, put on his
vest and blazer and said good-bye.  I intended to take it, I really
did, but I wanted a few moments alone.  I'd just lost my boy today,
Sharon.  I didn't want a damned sleeping pill to muddle his memory, not
until I'd thought awhile."

Sharon tenderly put a hand on Mattie Ruth's forearm.

Mattie Ruth took a breath, remembering.

"I didn't go to eavesdrop, either.  In fact when I heard these voices,
at first I thought I was havin' a hallucination.

A seance.  I even called Will John's name."  Her lips tightened into a
bloodless line.

"An intercom we had installed a year ago.  So that if Paul was in the
study and I was in the bedroom, I wouldn't have to go down the hall to
roust him.  He did a lot of briefin' in there.

Evidently we'd left it on."

Mattie Ruth took a sip of whiskey, shuddered slightly, placed the glass
back on the coaster.

"When I realized what I was hearin' I got out of bed to shut the
intercom off.  Then I heard Cas's voice.  Dammit, Sharon, why did I
have to hear that?  I stood there beside that bedroom speaker and it
was like my world was endin'.

Forty years I've been married to a man I didn't even know."

Sharon watched her.  She wondered how Mattie Ruth could possibly not
have known.  Politics and power had blinded this woman for all these
years.

Sharon went around, sat on the piano stool, and poised her fingers as
if ready to give a concert.  She didn't say anything.

"They were arguin'.  My husband and my daughterin-law, like lovers.
What the hell, they were lovers.

Lovers and murderers.  God in heaven .. ."

Sharon watched a row of glistening piano keys.

"I

know about all of the story.  Senator.  They killed Courtney Lee, and
Will John, and a detective named Mark C. Potter."

Mattie Ruth looked incredulous.

"You knew?"

"I had no proof."  Sharon helplessly shrugged.  A tear formed, blurring
her vision.

"Did you know my husband was sleepin' with that .. . teenager^' "I
knew.  Tonight I confronted them with it.  Cas hadn't known until
tonight."

"That's what she was tearin' into him about," Mattie Ruth said.

"They weren't sorry my son was dead, or about anything else they'd
done.  My daughter-inlaw was mad because my husband had been playin'
around with an intern and she didn' know it."

The women sat in silence.  Sharon depressed a black key, played a
single note.  B-flat.

"I don't have much memory of shootin' 'em," Mattie Ruth said.

"That pistol was in a drawer, Paul got it for me several years ago."
She indicated the pearl handled derringer that lay on the piano.  A
twenty five  Sharon wondered idly if it was the same weapon Cas had
used to kill Potter.  She doubted that it was.

"I sort of remember takin' the gun and some bullets from the drawer,
and walkin' down the corridor to the study.  I do remember clear as a
bell the look on Paul's face when I came in the study.  He was about to
think up another lie, Sharon.  It was in his eyes.  He knew he was
caught, and he was concoctin' a story to tell his way out of it.  If I
hadn't shot him, right then and there, he probably would have pulled
the wool over my eyes one more time.

"And Cassandra," Mattie Ruth said, "seemed resigned to it.  I'll give
her the benefit and believe she saw it comin' and thought she deserved
it.  I shot her in the chest.  She just looked down as if to say, well,
here it is, and then collapsed on the floor.  I had to reload to shoot
her twice more.  Other than on the practice range it's the only time
I've fired the damned thing.  I'd almost forgotten how to reload."
Mattie Ruth picked up the tumbler of whiskey and stared at the amber
liquid.

"It's the woman in me, Sharon.  Instinct older than whatever makes us
want to be so goddamned equal these days.  Everything was Paul's fault,
yet I took it out on the other woman more than on him."

Sharon watched as Mattie Ruth took a stiff glug of whiskey.

"I'm finished, Sharon.  Let's call the police now," the senator said.

Sharon said, pensively, "Are you sure you want to do that?"

"Damn him."  Mattie Ruth squeezed her glass so hard that it seemed the
heavy tumbler might break.

"Damn him.  Everything could have been so perfect for us all."

Sharon considered the last part wishful thinking.

Things could never be perfect in a family that dysfunctional.

Never, never, never.  Odd as it seemed, she felt a strange bond with
Mattie Ruth Benedict at that moment.

Two women decades apart in age; both, however, harmed by the same man
in a way that could never be quite repaired.  Sharon said, "Senator
Benedict, look at me."

Mattie Ruth swiveled her head.  She started to speak, but something in
Sharon's tone stopped her.

The United States Senator from Texas watched in silence.

Sharon said, "I want you to listen carefully.  There is the law and
there is justice, and they're often two entirely different things.  I'm

about to tell you some 5

thing I've never told another living soul.  I killed a man once.  Never
mind who, when or why.  But it was justice, and under the same
circumstances I'd kill him again.  I'm not a bit sorry, and that's the
same situation you should be in right now.  There is nothing for you to
be ashamed of, and you should never feel that way."

Mattie Ruth's voice strengthened, regaining some of its natural
resonance.

"I don't know that I should, either, child.  They killed my son.  If
the police had your attitude, it would be a lot better for me right
now."

"The police deal in a different vein.  And you're right, they wouldn't
be so forgiving.  In this instance you should cultivate your own
forgiveness, not that I believe any is necessary.  Judge your own
actions and live with yourself.  You don't owe anyone anything,
Senator, not over what happened tonight.  If anything, the world owes
you."

Mattie Ruth showed a regretful curiosity.

"What are you sayin', Sharon Hays?"

"I'm saying that we're not calling anyone at the moment.  You should
sleep on it.  If you feel tomorrow that you should contact the police,
then that's tomorrow."

"Those two bodies in my upstairs study aren't gonna disappear."

Sharon stepped away from the piano.

"Oh, yes, they are.  You sit right there and finish your whiskey,
Senator.

The rest you should leave up to me."

Sharon reentered the study to find Lyndon Gray and Mrs.  Welton
watching the bodies like detached spectators.  Gray said, "How is the
senator holding up?"

Sharon went over to the desk and studied Paul Benedict.

She said, "As well as could be expected."

"Given the circumstances," Gray said, "a jury shouldn't be too harsh
with the lady."

"If there is any jury.  Mr.  Gray, when you landed at the airport you
told me you knew roads in this town that angels fear to tread.  You
think you can remember any of them?"

Gray's jaw tightened in anticipation.

"It's been two decades, mum.  But I might muddle through."

Sharon looked at Paul Benedict, then went over and straddled Cas
Benedict's body.  She looked to Mrs.

Welton, then zeroed in on Lyndon Gray once more.

"I hope you've kept up your conditioning, Mr.  Gray.

Mr.  Benedict might weigh a bit.  But hoist him up, please.  We might
strain ourselves, but I believe Mrs.

Welton and I can handle Cassandra on our own."

Sharon knew they were in Maryland only because she'd seen the sign when
they'd crossed over the border, but she couldn't have found her way
back to Washington if her life depended on it.  On the way out Gray had
taken a zigzag path in Cas Benedict's Chrysler and it had been all that
Sharon, driving her rented Lincoln, could do to keep Gray's taillights
in view.  They were in a wooded area a mile or so from the nearest
traveled road.  Twin ruts led into the forest.

The Lincoln sat ten feet behind the Chrysler.  Gray had carried Paul
Benedict from the Chrysler's trunk and set him behind the wheel while
Sharon and Mrs.

Welton had lugged Cas around to the other side and deposited her in the
passenger seat.  Sharon was out of breath and a strand of hair clung
wetly to her forehead.

Neither Mrs.  Welton nor Lyndon Gray seemed to be breathing hard.

Gray said earnestly, "Be certain.  Miss Hays.  There will be no backing
out once the deed is done."

"I'm not giving this one a second thought," Sharon said.

"We're doing the right thing.  I doubt there will be consequences,
where we're concerned.  We've given Mattie Ruth an opportunity to make
it all go away.  If she makes the right choice, she'll live with it."

Gray spoke with finality.

"The die is cast, then.

Olivia?"

Mrs.  Welton gave" the corpses in the front seat a professional
once-over.  She said, "the woman will be the victim, the man the
suicide.  You have the senator's derringer?"

Gray produced the pearl-handled weapon from beneath the folds of his
coat.  Mrs.  Welton took the pistol and held it gingerly by the barrel.
Both Brits wore thin rubber gloves.  Mrs.  Welton dug in her handbag
and came up with what looked like two empty bullet jackets.  The first
was too big.  The second fit snugly into the derringer.

Sharon looked to Gray in curiosity.

He said, "It's loaded with a thin paper wad which will disintegrate
when the weapon is fired.  Leaves a nice powder burn."

As Sharon watched, Mrs.  Welton placed the barrel of the derringer over
the hole in Paul Benedict's forehead, eared back the hammer, and pulled
the trigger.

There was a pop like a firecracker, echoing through the wintry
stillness.

"Good show," Gray said.

"Instant suicide," Mrs.  Welton said.

Sharon stood by with her breath fogging.

"You two have disposed of a body or so, haven't you?"

Welton and Gray exchanged a look.  Gray smiled.

"We might have to eliminate you if we answered that, Miss Hays," the
Englishman said.

he next morning Sharon sat beside Russell Black in the tourist cabin of
a 757 at Reagan National, and waited for takeoff.  The engines throbbed
and the wings vibrated.  Black silently read the morning paper.

Visible through the window, the sun shone brightly.

The Potomac's banks were covered in melting snow.

The Capitol Dome towered in the background.

Sharon had slept very little.  On the ride to the airport, Black had
apologized for last night's tirade.  Tiffs between Sharon Hays and her
boss and mentor seldom lasted very long.  She'd called Sheila from a
pay phone by the boarding gate.  Sheila would bring Mela- me and meet
Sharon's flight at DFW.  Sharon couldn't wait to see her daughter.  She
would hug the teenager's neck until Melanie pulled away in
embarrassment.

She'd scanned the morning paper, front to back, and tuned in the
morning reports both on CNN and the local D.C. channels.  Not a word
about two bodies discovered in a car over in Maryland, identified or
otherwise.

Someone would run across the Chrysler parked in the woods eventually,
no doubt about that.  Sharon had called Mattie Ruth Benedict just as
the 6 a.m.

news was over, and had asked the senator what she planned to do. Mattie
Ruth was undecided.  Sharon had suggested that Mattie Ruth phone the
police and have her husband listed as a missing person.

The police and prosecutors would dismiss Paul and Cas Benedict's deaths
as a murder/suicide.  If Mattie Ruth kept her silence, that would be
that as far as any investigation was concerned.  Politically Mattie
Ruth would become the perfect sympathetic figure, and Sharon was
certain that Wallace Burns and the guys at Porter, Ragsdale & Jones
wouldn't miss the opportunity to build the tragedy into a windfall for
the Party.  Mattie Ruth would survive.  In a year or two, Will John and
Paul Benedict would be sad footnotes in Mattie's Ruth's career.  Who
knows?  Sharon thought.

More power to her, the old gal might even be president someday.
Sharon's conscience was clear.  Paul Benedict, the dreadful night in
Austin, the feelings of guilt she'd felt for a decade, she at long last
was certain she could put it all behind her.

The jets rumbled to life and the 757 streamed down the runway.  In
seconds the airliner lifted off, banked, and roared through a curtain
of low-flying clouds.

Within a quarte.  of a minute Sharon's head dropped back against the
cushions, and she drifted into the most peaceful slumber she'd had in
years.


SARAH GRHGORY is the author of three previous legal thrillers
featuring Texas lawyer Sharon Hays:

The Best Defense.  Public Trust, and In Self-Defense.