rip your—”
“I don’t want any trouble,” Loving assured her. “I just gotta talk to Lucille.”
“Then come back another night. There’s no way—”
“Tell her it’s about Amber.” It was a shot in the dark, but he had to try something. “Tell her
I’m looking for Amber.”
The two coal-black eyes in the narrow slit stared at him for a long moment. A good thirty
seconds passed before Loving heard the sound of the door chain being released.
“You can come inside. But stay in the lobby. I’ll ask Lucille if she’s up to it.” She held up
a finger. “You better not be screwing with us.”
“Gosh, no,” Loving said. “I wouldn’t dream of . . . trying to screw with someone here. At the
escort service.”
She gave him another long look. “Back in sixty seconds. Don’t go anywhere.”
Senator Glancy had recommended the Four Georges at the Georgetown Inn for dinner; he’d even
made the reservation himself on Ben’s cell phone and told the maître d’ to put it on his tab. He
wasn’t attending himself, since the federal marshals collected him as soon as the jury was
dismissed, but Ben and Christina opted to take his recommendation—and his free meal. They were
seated in the elegant and somewhat exclusive George II room—apparently senators had pull in this
town, even when they were currently residing in a holding cell. The room was decorated in a
desert motif: palm trees, or something that looked like them, brick-laid walls painted a sandy
hue and ornamented with several variegated mosaics. They didn’t have to sit on the carpet or wear
turbans, but the low tables and the belly-dancing music still conveyed the desired ambience.
“Heard anything from Loving?” Christina asked. She had changed into a turquoise dress with a
hip-hugging waist that was positively lovely. Even some nice bling—a faux pearl necklace and
earrings.
“Barely.” Ben was wearing the same suit he’d had on all day. Of course, he had only three, and
the dry cleaning at the Watergate wasn’t that speedy, so he couldn’t afford to be extravagant.
“He did leave me a message. Thinks he’s got some kind of lead on Veronica Cooper’s friends.”
“’Bout damn time, as my father used to say.” She flagged the waiter and asked him to refill
her club soda. “You know how little we’ve got, and the prosecution has a mound of evidence. Not
to mention public opinion—a general populace predisposed to convict. Everyone commentator and
quidnunc in the city is talking about this case.”
“Because of the video?”
“Because this is a nation where news has been supplanted by gossip. Because most people would
rather think the worst of their elected officials than the best.”
“There is that . . .”
“And I don’t care what the judge says in court. As soon as the jurors see that video, in its
full and unexpurgated form, the burden of proof will be on us.”
“We don’t have to prove he’s a hero. Or even a nice guy. We just have to prove he’s not a
murderer. I think we should all but ignore the video, admit the affair. Focus on the murder, the
forensic evidence, the bizarre appearance of the corpse in the hideaway. Glancy’s alibi.”
“Padolino will do his darnedest to bust that alibi.”
“Just the same, that’s where we should concentrate our energy. That’s where Padolino has some
holes in his case. We should make the most of it.” He fidgeted with his fork. “Did I mention . .
. that’s a very attractive dress you’re wearing tonight. Have I seen it before?”
She flashed her usual fulgent smile. “This is what I always wear when we go someplace
nice.”
“So that would mean . . .”
“You’ve seen it twice.”
“Well . . . it looks . . . particularly nice tonight.” He wanted to slap himself. Ben, you
smooth talker. More talk like that and she’ll be putty in your hands.
“You’re sweet. But I’ve had it for years. It’s getting worn. I should
“I don’t want any trouble,” Loving assured her. “I just gotta talk to Lucille.”
“Then come back another night. There’s no way—”
“Tell her it’s about Amber.” It was a shot in the dark, but he had to try something. “Tell her
I’m looking for Amber.”
The two coal-black eyes in the narrow slit stared at him for a long moment. A good thirty
seconds passed before Loving heard the sound of the door chain being released.
“You can come inside. But stay in the lobby. I’ll ask Lucille if she’s up to it.” She held up
a finger. “You better not be screwing with us.”
“Gosh, no,” Loving said. “I wouldn’t dream of . . . trying to screw with someone here. At the
escort service.”
She gave him another long look. “Back in sixty seconds. Don’t go anywhere.”
Senator Glancy had recommended the Four Georges at the Georgetown Inn for dinner; he’d even
made the reservation himself on Ben’s cell phone and told the maître d’ to put it on his tab. He
wasn’t attending himself, since the federal marshals collected him as soon as the jury was
dismissed, but Ben and Christina opted to take his recommendation—and his free meal. They were
seated in the elegant and somewhat exclusive George II room—apparently senators had pull in this
town, even when they were currently residing in a holding cell. The room was decorated in a
desert motif: palm trees, or something that looked like them, brick-laid walls painted a sandy
hue and ornamented with several variegated mosaics. They didn’t have to sit on the carpet or wear
turbans, but the low tables and the belly-dancing music still conveyed the desired ambience.
“Heard anything from Loving?” Christina asked. She had changed into a turquoise dress with a
hip-hugging waist that was positively lovely. Even some nice bling—a faux pearl necklace and
earrings.
“Barely.” Ben was wearing the same suit he’d had on all day. Of course, he had only three, and
the dry cleaning at the Watergate wasn’t that speedy, so he couldn’t afford to be extravagant.
“He did leave me a message. Thinks he’s got some kind of lead on Veronica Cooper’s friends.”
“’Bout damn time, as my father used to say.” She flagged the waiter and asked him to refill
her club soda. “You know how little we’ve got, and the prosecution has a mound of evidence. Not
to mention public opinion—a general populace predisposed to convict. Everyone commentator and
quidnunc in the city is talking about this case.”
“Because of the video?”
“Because this is a nation where news has been supplanted by gossip. Because most people would
rather think the worst of their elected officials than the best.”
“There is that . . .”
“And I don’t care what the judge says in court. As soon as the jurors see that video, in its
full and unexpurgated form, the burden of proof will be on us.”
“We don’t have to prove he’s a hero. Or even a nice guy. We just have to prove he’s not a
murderer. I think we should all but ignore the video, admit the affair. Focus on the murder, the
forensic evidence, the bizarre appearance of the corpse in the hideaway. Glancy’s alibi.”
“Padolino will do his darnedest to bust that alibi.”
“Just the same, that’s where we should concentrate our energy. That’s where Padolino has some
holes in his case. We should make the most of it.” He fidgeted with his fork. “Did I mention . .
. that’s a very attractive dress you’re wearing tonight. Have I seen it before?”
She flashed her usual fulgent smile. “This is what I always wear when we go someplace
nice.”
“So that would mean . . .”
“You’ve seen it twice.”
“Well . . . it looks . . . particularly nice tonight.” He wanted to slap himself. Ben, you
smooth talker. More talk like that and she’ll be putty in your hands.
“You’re sweet. But I’ve had it for years. It’s getting worn. I should
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