Ben’s brow furrowed. He knew that Bressler was inveterately loyal to his senator, but this was sounding a little paranoid-more like one of Loving’s conspiracy theories than anything that could really happen. “Big risk to take just to smear a senator.”

“Compared to what? The push-polls Lee Atwater orchestrated to plant the rumor that John McCain’s adopted Bangladeshi daughter was actually a bastard he sired in Vietnam? The out-of-state thugs Tom DeLay imported into Florida to screw up the 2000 recount? The forged letter Nixon’s people used to push Muskie out of the race? You’re not in Oklahoma anymore, kiddo. This is the big time. People here play for keeps.”

“Hey, Kincaid!”

Ben saw the fist hurtling toward his face and jumped back just in time. His assailant tumbled forward, knocking Ben backward. Ben tried to scramble to his feet, but the man came at him again, this time landing a punch square in his stomach. Pain radiated through Ben’s body. He tried to defend himself, but he was already wobbling and the sudden movement made him lose his balance. He tumbled back onto the floor, landing hard on the seat of his borrowed trousers.

“Defend this, asshole.” The attacker reared back to deliver a swift kick to Ben’s ribs, but before he had a chance, he was knocked to the ground-by Marshall Bressler’s wheelchair. The man flew forward and hit the hard marble floor face-first. He groaned, unsuccessfully trying to push himself to his knees. A few moments later, two security officers arrived at the scene and grabbed him, cuffing his hands behind his back.

Ben rose, clutching his aching stomach. “Nice work with the chair, Marshall. You really know how to make that thing move.”

He smiled a little. “It’s my legs that are shot, not my arms. Who is this creep, anyway?”

Ben took a long look. “Darrin Cooper. We met at a restaurant a few nights ago.”

“Is he…?”

“Yeah. Veronica Cooper’s father.”

“Oh.” Much of the anger drained from Bressler’s face. “Well, that’s different.”

“Yeah.”

One of the security guards addressed Ben. “We’ll take him to our holding cell, sir. But we’ll need you to come in and sign a complaint.”

Ben waved his hand in the air. “I don’t want to press charges.”

The guard stiffened. “Sir, this is a federal courthouse. We take any threat to security very seriously. We can’t allow-”

“I’m not pressing charges,” Ben said firmly. “Just don’t let the man in again, okay?”

The guard frowned, obviously not happy. “As you wish, sir.”

“Thank you.”

“This isn’t over, Kincaid,” Cooper snarled, glaring with his weird walleyed expression. “You can’t go on working for the devil forever. There will be a reckoning!”

“With all due respect,” Ben replied, “I think you need some grief counseling. In the worst possible way. I hope you’ll take this chance I’ve given you to get some.”

“Don’t pretend kindness to me. You’re doing Satan’s work. Helping the man who butchered my little girl!”

Eventually the guards hauled Cooper out of earshot.

“Is that smart?” Bressler asked. “Not preferring charges? He doesn’t have to get into the courtroom to get to you. How long till he shows up again to deliver another fist-o-gram?”

“The man lost his daughter,” Ben said simply.

“The man barely knew his daughter,” Christina interjected.

Ben nodded. “And that probably makes it worse.”

Although there were several people in the private apartment, none of them looked up when Lucille entered, Loving and Daily close behind. In fact, no one even seemed to notice. They were in worlds of their own.

Loving heard a stream of air escape from Daily’s lips. “Amber,” he whispered.

There was a long sofa in the center of the room, parallel to a glass-topped coffee table littered with spoons and bongs and all kinds of drug paraphernalia. Various overstuffed chairs seemed randomly scattered throughout the room, most of them bearing men or mostly naked women-correction: girls-sprawled across them, all of the girls bearing heavy-lidded expressions, focused intently on some far-off place. One of them was bent forward over the back of a chair; the man standing behind had her hair in his fist and was pounding her with a steady, nauseating rhythm.

On the sofa, a thin, ashen-complexioned man sat with his legs crossed, a relaxed smile on his face, staring at nothing. Lying beside him, with her head buried in his lap, was a young woman wearing a man’s shirt, naked from the waist down. Loving recognized her from the pictures he’d seen. It was Amber.

“My God,” Daily whispered. He seemed unable to move, barely able to speak.

“It’s like goddamn Reefer Madness,” Lucille said under her breath.

Loving peered across the room, sickened, stunned, wondering what to do first, or next, or at all. The guards posted on the inside of the room were ignoring them, just as they no doubt had been trained to ignore everything that went on in here. But he didn’t kid himself that he could get Amber out. He’d never make it to the stairs.

And the other problem was that Amber so clearly did not want out.

“Goddammit!” shouted the man behind the chair. Apparently he’d finished. “God, Vicky, that’s good. You want some of this, Randy?”

The man on the sofa did not alter his placid expression. “Been there, done that.”

“How ’bout yours? She ready to go again?”

“What do you think, my darling?” He put his finger under Amber’s chin and turned her head to face him. “Ready for some sloppy seconds?”

Loving held Daily back with the flat of his hand.

She squirmed and stretched like a kitten, her eyes barely open. “Don’t… know…”

“Daddy’ll give you a little something more. Just to help you along.”

“Yeah?” She slid off the sofa, curled up at his feet, and began to lick his hand. “Love Daddy.” Chest extended, she shoved her tongue into his mouth. The kiss, if you could call it that, lasted for an eternity. Loving restrained Daily for the duration.

With a twitchy abruptness that made Loving’s heart jump, the man on the sofa adjusted his gaze, apparently noticing the newcomers for the first time. He scanned Lucille, top to bottom, then smiled. “Want some X?” he slurred.

Lucille got her game together quick. She moved forward with an unsubtle body language that made it clear she had come to join the party. “You talkin’ Ecstasy?”

He shook his head. “That’s for the losers out there. We got the real X. The good stuff. Oxy.”

OxyContin, Loving thought silently. A prescription pain reliever, basically morphine. And creeps like this one often mixed it with Spanish fly or other date rape drugs to make sure their prey got high and happy and submissive.

The man on the sofa rolled his hazy eyes. “So you want some or what?”

“I guess I could take a hit,” Lucille answered.

“Hey!” Amber said. She sat upright, exposing herself. “I thought it wasss for me!” Apparently she was so far gone she didn’t even recognize Lucille.

“There’s plenty for everyone,” the man on the sofa assured her.

“Cool,” Lucille said. “Hit me.”

“All you got to do is join the party. Come sit in my lap, beautiful.”

Lucille did as she was told. Loving cringed, but he tried to comfort himself with the thought that she was used to doing disgusting things she didn’t much like. The man on the sofa poured a white powder out of a vial into a spoon, then held the flame of a lighter beneath the spoon. As he stared at the flame, his pupils dilated. “Doin’ a little cookin’, bitchcakes. Gonna let you lick the spoon.”

“You sshould let me go firsst!” Amber said, sounding like a petulant drunk.

The man set down the spoon for a moment and brought the flame next to her face. She screamed.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he said flatly. “Just keep your ass on the floor and lick my hand.”