“Lady, they’re all pretenders. There’s no such thing as vampires.”

“You’re wrong. They do exist.”

“Where? Universal Studios?”

“History is replete with documented vampires. The novel Dracula was based on a real vampire. Lady Caroline Lamb, the Victorian poet, was a vampire. There have been many books written on the subject.”

“Ma’am,” Loving said, “with all due respect, I’ve been known to buy any number of off-the-wall theories. But even I don’t believe some lady poet was really a vampire. Know why? ’Cause there’s no such thing!”

She looked at him with a sad, pitying expression. “That’s what they want you to believe.”

“Oh, for Pete’s-”

“Are you familiar with Rousseau?”

“The actress?”

“No, the eighteenth-century French philosopher and writer. One of the smartest men who ever lived. He said-and this is an exact quote-‘If ever there was in the world a warranted and proven history, it is that of vampires: nothing is lacking, official reports, testimonials of persons of standing, of surgeons, of clergymen, of judges; the judicial evidence is all-embracing.’”

“The man was cracked. With all due respect, Miss Shalimar, people don’t rise from the dead, no matter who they’ve been suckin’ on.”

“Do you know the disease porphyria? It’s a genetic disorder that causes receding gums-which can make people look like they have fangs-and also creates hypersensitivity to sunlight and an enzyme deficiency that can cause people to crave blood.”

Loving pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lady, you’re… what? Twenty-one, twenty-two? You should be in a sorority or the Junior Service League or somethin’. When did you get started chasin’ vampires?”

Her eyes narrowed to a dull pinpoint of light. “After they took my sister.”

A synapse fired somewhere inside Loving’s brain. “What was your sister’s name?”

She looked at him for a long while, as if trying to evaluate whether she could trust him, before finally answering. “My sister’s name was Beatrice. Why do you ask?”

17

B en waited quietly, wringing his hands under the defense table, desperate to know who the prosecution’s pièce de résistance would be. He’d pored over their witness list, but that was no help-there were at least thirty uncalled witnesses remaining, and as far as he knew none of them had anything sensational to say. He’d tried to wheedle the information out of Padolino, who wouldn’t give up anything but kept pestering Ben for Christina’s phone number. His associates were apparently under threat of bodily injury not to talk. Ben had scanned the courtroom, the hallway outside, even the men’s room, but hadn’t been able to spot anyone who wasn’t normally present.

“Maybe you’re wrong,” Christina said, with an attempt at solace that was painfully unavailing. “Maybe there is no killer finale. They’ve already put on enough to make their case.”

“But possibly not enough to win it.” Ben shook his head. “No, if this was all he had, Padolino would’ve closed with Senator Tidwell. Or the video. There has to be something more.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Glancy grunted. “My staff is equally clueless.”

“Not for want of trying.” Amanda Burton stood behind her man, the usual unpleasant expression on her face. “I’ve called all my connections in the Senate and the law enforcement world. They haven’t been able to tell me anything.”

Shandy, her blond hair tucked behind her ears, nodded. “Marshall’s come up dry, too. And if Marshall can’t find it, it isn’t available. Oh-I almost forgot.” She pulled a sealed envelope out of her satchel. “This is for you, Boss.”

Glancy held the letter between his fingers. “Should I read it now, dear? Or in private?”

She smiled. “It can wait till later.”

“Thanks.” He tucked it into his coat pocket. “It’s a comfort to know I have such dedicated people taking care of business while I’m stuck in this trial.”

“Speaking of which,” Shandy said, turning toward Ben, “you look cute as a bug in Todd’s navy-blue Brooks Brothers.”

Ben glanced at the suit he was wearing. “What, this old thing?”

Shandy laughed. “Fits you much better than that blue rag you were wearing twice a week. What’s ‘Dillard’s,’ anyway?”

Ben stiffened slightly. “Dillard’s is a first-rate Oklahoma-based chain of department stores-”

“But Ben doesn’t shop there,” Christina interjected. “He shops at a consignment store and buys the hand-me-downs of people who shop at Dillard’s.”

Ben adjusted the knot in his necktie. “Nothing wrong with a little frugality.”

Judge Herndon’s clerk entered the courtroom, closely trailed by the man himself. The judge greeted everyone, gave the usual admonitions to his sequestered jury, then got down to business. “I especially want to remind the members of the press in the audience that no disturbances, outbursts, or unruly behavior will be tolerated. And that goes for the nonpress personages in the gallery as well.”

Herndon had never started the day with anything like this before. Did he know something Ben didn’t? Was there some reason he foresaw the possibility of an outburst?

“Mr. Padolino,” the judge said, leaning back in his chair, “please call your next witness.”

“With pleasure.” Padolino rose, smoothed the crease in his jacket, then addressed the court. “The District calls Miss Shandy Craig.”

“What?” Ben hadn’t meant to say it aloud, wasn’t really even conscious he was speaking. He turned, along with everyone else sitting at counsel table, to face the rear of the gallery. Sure enough, lovely Shandy rose to her feet.

She was not surprised.

“I don’t believe it,” Glancy said, under his breath.

Christina, Marie, the rest of Glancy’s staff, and everyone in the gallery who knew the players seemed equally stunned, including a few of the people sitting at Padolino’s table. Well, that’s the best way to keep a secret, Ben thought grimly. Tell no one.

Shandy started down the nave of the gallery, composed, her chin slightly raised, moving without hesitation. Marshall Bressler was seated in his wheelchair toward the front on the defense side. As she approached, he turned his wheels outward slightly, blocking her progress.

Shandy stopped. The two made eye contact. Even without telepathic powers, Ben felt confident he knew what message was being communicated by the senator’s administrative assistant to his young protégée.

You traitor.

Shandy calmly sidestepped him, passed through the swinging doors, and was sworn in by the bailiff.

Ben had assumed-had hoped, really-that Shandy’s testimony would focus on the discovery of Veronica Cooper’s body. Unfortunately, he was incorrect.

“Was there anything unusual about the hiring process?” Padolino asked.

“Well,” Shandy replied, “I couldn’t help but notice that all the other applicants for the vacated intern position-there were four of us-were about my age, and I don’t want to seem egotistical, but no one there was hard on the eyes.”

“During the interview process, were you asked any… unusual questions?”

Ben and Christina looked at each other. Here we go again.

“It wasn’t so much his questions as the remarks he made in between. I didn’t get the joke some of the time. But I did think he was making remarks that were sexually suggestive. He’d laugh and his eyebrows would dance up and down.”

“Perhaps he was just trying to learn a little something about you,” Padolino suggested. “So he could assess your qualifications for the job.”

“Well, at one point he asked if I was wearing a thong. You know, underwear. I had a hard time seeing how that fit into a congressional intern’s job description.”

“Anything else?”

“Not really. I think he wanted to talk to me more, but he was pressed for time. As you know, the video had just hit the airwaves the day before. He had reporters practically beating down his door, he had a committee about to go into session and, he said, ‘many other important meetings.’ So he gave me the job and I went to work. I was in the committee room when the meeting began at nine.”