2

Anne Deveraux met Cosmo for drinks at License at five-thirty. Her friend was already at the bar nursing a martini.

“I want two of those,” Anne said over the loud music. They were blaring classic rock today. Jethro Tull.

“Tough day?” Cosmos asked.

“Usual. Had to bust some chops.”

“Ooh, you sound like Joe Pesci or something.”

“Joe Pesci?”

“You know, like some Mafia guy.”

Anne said nothing, motioned for the bartender, pointed at Cosmo’s glass. He got the message.

“So, are you some Mafia guy?” Cosmo asked.

“You’re weird.”

“Or are you dating some Mafia guy?”

Anne looked at her. Cosmo’s eyes were full of mischief. “What brought this on?” Anne asked, trying not to sound like she was a kid with a hand in the cookie jar.

“I don’t know, your mysterious boyfriend and all. It’s like a movie. I was trying to think, why won’t she tell me? It’s because he’s Mafia, or a Republican, or something like that. Maybe you’re seeing a Catholic priest, I don’t know. You won’t tell me.”

“Fine, I’ll tell you.”

“I thought so.”

“He’s in construction. In New York.”

“Construction?”

“Buildings. He builds buildings.” It was better that Cosmo didn’t know. Someday, maybe.

“Like a Donald Trump?”

“Sure, like Donald Trump.”

“The guy loaded?”

“He’s got some money.”

“When can I meet him?”

“Sometime. Enough about him. What about – ” She stopped when someone dropped onto the chair next to her. She gave a quick glance and saw a man staring at her. Markey.

She almost slipped off her chair.

“Hi,” he said.

“Who’s this?” Cosmo asked.

“Detective Markey,” he said. “Glad to know you.”

Anne felt her stomach twist around like one of the bar pretzels. “Who said you could sit here?”

“This is a public place.”

“I’m having a private conversation.”

“I just need a minute or two,” Markey said. The female bartender asked him what he’d like. “Ginger ale,” he said.

“Maybe I should go,” Cosmo said.

“No,” Anne said. “You don’t have to go anywhere.”

“Maybe that would be best,” Markey said. “Just for a minute or two.”

Something in Markey’s look told Anne this was not going to be a casual conversation. “Give me a couple of minutes,” she told Cosmo.

“Just call me later,” Cosmo said. She dropped a five dollar bill on the bar and walked off.

“Thanks a lot,” Anne said to Markey. “You’re a real social asset.”

“Just doing my job.”

“As what? Keeper of the cop cliché book?”

“I don’t want this to be unpleasant.”

“It already is. Detail me.”

He looked at her quizzically.

“Tell me what this is all about,” Anne said slowly.

“Your boss, Senator Sam Levering. A year and half ago there was talk about a bimbo eruption. Remember that?”

Anne was silent. He obviously knew the facts.

Markey went on. “Three women were supposedly going to come forward and make statements about Levering and his, well, his peculiar tastes in the bedroom. I’ve got the names written somewhere. Want me to find them?”

“Just go on,” Anne said.

“Anyway, there was noise made about these three going on Larry King and spilling their guts. It was apparently the work of a very conservative lawyer out in Tulsa who did not like Levering one bit. But the story never got on the air. Remember why?”

Anne returned his look with iron resistance.

“This lawyer was suddenly caught with a sixteen-year-old prostitute out on Highway 20. And then the women clam up.”

“The guy was trying to make money and a name for himself,” Anne said. “Sham artists are all over the place.”

“And three women change their stories?”

“Happens.”

“Sure it does. When somebody gets to them.”

A woman screamed from across the room. Anne’s heart almost jumped out of her chest. She looked and saw the woman, her head thrown back, dissolving into a huge, obnoxious laugh.

“Must have been a funny one,” Markey said.

“This whole conversation is a funny one,” Anne said. “Why don’t you get to the point and then leave me alone?”

“I always wondered about that lawyer,” Markey said. “It wasn’t my jurisdiction, of course, but I take an interest in things. I make connections all the time. It just happens. And this morning I’m thinking to myself, what has become of our witness? The one I told you about. Remember?”

“No,” she lied.

“The street guy. Elijah.”

“Oh, him. What about him?”

“We can’t find him now.”

Ever since she could remember, Anne Deveraux had worked hard at perfecting the art of the lie. She had to. Her stepfather had made it plain what would happen to her if she told her mother what he did to her at night. Little Annie, you know what I can do to you if you tell, don’t you? Don’t cry, little Annie. I’ll have to make you stop if you do. She had no choice. Out of fear she had learned to deceive. To keep a straight face when backed up against a wall.

This detective had no idea who he was dealing with, and little mind games weren’t going to get to her.

“That’s too bad,” Anne said, giving her voice the perfect tone of unconcern.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any information on where he might be, would you?”

“Of course not.”

“I mean, the guy you spray has a connection to your boss – ”

“Oh, come on, Detective,” Anne said. “Not only is that the weakest witness I’ve ever seen, he couldn’t possibly be right.”

“Why not?”

With a perfectly calm voice, Anne said, “Because Senator Levering was with me that night.”

Markey frowned. Perfect.

“I went back, as you suggested, and checked my book and Senator Levering’s. We had a strategy meeting at his place. We ate pizza and drank Diet Cokes, although I will admit to you the senator gave his a little dash of bourbon every now and then. We watched Nightline and then worked until about two in the morning. Any further questions?”

Markey blinked at her a couple of times. “Yes,” he said. “What was on Nightline that night?”

Anne smiled. She almost felt sorry for this police hack. “The Pentagon budget,” she said. She had looked it up a couple of nights ago in preparing the alibi. Then she added with just the right touch of uncertainty, “At least I think that’s what it was.”

“I’ll check on it,” Markey said.

“You do that.”

He drained his ginger ale and left, looking, Anne thought, a little rattled.

3

“Like the bartender said to the horse,” Helen said. “Why the long face?”

“Is it that long?” Millie asked.

“Like a list of crooked congressmen.”

“Sorry. I haven’t been good company so far, have I?”

“This is a time to celebrate,” Helen said. The exclusive restaurant Helen had chosen was just over the Virginia line and had the flavor of the Old South.

When Millie did not say anything, Helen added, “You are ecstatic about this, aren’t you? I mean, as if Mel Gibson walked up to you and asked you to model lingerie?”

Millie looked at her oldest friend in D.C. I don’t know her at all, really, she thought. How many times had they ever talked about their deepest concerns and desires? Helen was in many ways a private person. She let people in only a little, and then only when it seemed to serve her purposes.

But then, that was how Millie was too, she realized. Now, those barriers needed to be broken. “Something has changed for me,” Millie began carefully.

Helen peered at Millie over her raised wineglass, which she held in the fingers of both hands. “Changed?”

“Yes.”

“We talking menopause here?”

“No, not that, I – ”

“Because if we are I have some drugs that – ”

“That’s not it.” Millie felt suddenly reluctant, but the boat had left the shore. She had to go with it. “I had some time to think in Santa Lucia.”