Naked In Death

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

She let Catherine cry it out, though she knew, too well, that the tears wouldn't wash the wound clean. She knew, too, that she wouldn't have been able to handle the situation alone. It was Roarke who calmed Elizabeth and Richard, who ordered in the domestic droid to gather up the broken crockery, who held their hands, and when he gauged the time was right, it was he who gently suggested bringing Catherine some tea.

Elizabeth fetched it herself, carefully closing the parlor doors behind her before she carried the cup to her sister-in-law. "Here, darling, drink a little."

"I'm sorry." Catherine put both shaky hands around the cup to warm them. "I'm sorry. I thought it had stopped. I made myself believe it had stopped. I couldn't live otherwise."

"It's all right." Her face blank, Elizabeth went back to her husband.

"Ms. DeBlass, I need you to tell me everything. Congresswoman DeBlass?" Eve waited until Catherine focused on her again. "Do you understand this is being recorded?"

"He'll stop you."

"No, he won't. That's why you called me, because you know I'll stop him."

"He's afraid of you," Catherine whispered. "He's afraid of you. I could tell. He's afraid of women. That's why he hurts them. I think he may have given something to my mother. Broke her mind. She knew."

"Your mother knew your father was abusing you?"

"She knew. She pretended she didn't, but I could see it in her eyes. She didn't want to know – she just wanted everything quiet and perfect, so she could give her parties and be the senator's wife." She lifted a hand, shielding her eyes. "When he would come into my room at night, I could see it on her face the next morning. But when I tried to talk to her, to tell her to make him stop, she pretended she didn't know what I meant. She told me to stop imagining things. To be good, to respect the family."

She lowered her hand again, cupped her tea with both hands, but didn't drink. "When I was little, seven or eight, he would come in at night and touch me. He said it was all right, because he was Daddy, and I was going to pretend to be Mommy. It was a game, he said, a secret game. He told me I had to do things – to touch him. To – "

"It's all right," Eve soothed as Catherine began to tremble violently. "You don't have to say. Tell me what you can."

"You had to obey him. You had to. He was a force in our house. Richard?"

"Yes." Richard caught his wife's hand in his and squeezed, squeezed. "I know."

"I couldn't tell you because I was ashamed, and I was afraid, and Mom just looked away, so I thought I had to do it." She swallowed hard. "On my twelfth birthday, we had a party. Lots of friends, and a big cake, and the ponies. You remember the ponies, Richard?"

"I remember." Tears tracked silently down his cheeks. "I remember."

"And that night, the night of my birthday, he came. He said I was old enough now. He said he had a present for me, a special present because I was growing up. And he raped me." She buried her face in her hands and rocked. "He said it was a present. Oh God. And I begged him to stop, because it hurt. And because I was old enough to know it was wrong, it was evil. I was evil. But he didn't stop. And he kept coming back. All those years until I could get away. I went to college, far away, where he couldn't touch me. And I told myself it never happened. It never, never happened.

"I tried to be strong, to make a life. I got married because I thought I would be safe. Justin was so kind, so gentle. He never hurt me. And I never told him. I thought if he knew, he'd despise me. So I kept telling myself it never happened."

She lowered her hands and looked at Eve. "I believed it, sometimes. Most of the time. I could lose myself in my work, in my family. But then I could see, I knew he was doing the same thing to Sharon. I wanted to help, but I didn't know how. So I pushed it away, just like my mother did. He killed her. Now he'll kill me."

"Why do you think he killed Sharon?"

"She wasn't weak like me. She turned it on him, used it against him. I heard them arguing. Christmas Day. When we all went to his house to pretend we were a family. I saw them go into his office, and I followed them. I opened the door, and I watched and I listened through the crack. He was so furious with her because she was making a public mockery of everything he stood for. And she said, 'You made me what I am, you bastard.' It warmed me to hear that. It made me want to cheer. She stood up to him. She threatened to expose him unless he paid her. She had it all documented, she said, every dirty detail. So he'd have to play the game her way. They fought, hurling words at each other. And then… "

Catherine glanced over at Elizabeth, at her brother, then looked away. "She took off her blouse." Elizabeth's moan had Catherine trembling again. "She told him he could have her, just like any client. But he'd pay more. A lot more. He was looking at her. I knew the way he was looking at her, his eyes glazed over, his mouth slack. He grabbed her breasts. She looked at me. Right at me. She'd known I was there, and she looked at me with such disgust. Maybe even with hate, because she knew I'd do nothing. I closed the door, closed it and ran. I was sick. Oh, Elizabeth."

"It's not your fault. She must have tried to tell me. I never saw, I never heard. I never thought. I was her mother, and I didn't protect her."

"I tried to talk to her." Catherine gripped her hands together. "When I went to New York for the fund-raiser. She said I'd chosen my way, and she'd chosen hers. And hers was better. I played politics, kept my head buried, and she played with power and kept her eyes opened.

"When I heard she was dead, I knew. At the funeral I watched him, and he watched me watching him. He came up to me, put his arms around me, held me close as if in comfort. And he whispered to me to pay attention. To remember, and to see what happened when families don't keep secrets. And he said what a fine boy Franklin was. What big plans he had for him. He said how proud I should be. And how careful." She closed her eyes. "What could I do? He's my child."

"No one's going to hurt your son." Eve closed a hand over Catherine's rigid ones. "I promise you."

"I'll never know if I could have saved her. Your child, Richard."

"You can know you're doing everything possible now." Hardly aware she'd taken Catherine's hand, Eve tightened her grip in reassurance. "It's going to be difficult for you, Ms. DeBlass, to go over all of this again, as you'll have to. To face the publicity. To testify, should it come to trial."

"He'll never let it go to trial," Catherine said wearily.

"I'm not going to give him a choice." Maybe not on murder, she thought. Not yet. But she had him cold on sexual abuse. "Ms. Barrister, I think your sister-in-law should rest now. Could you help her upstairs?"

"Yes, of course." Elizabeth rose, walked over to help Catherine to her feet. "Let's go lie down for a bit, darling."

"I'm sorry." Catherine leaned heavily against Elizabeth as she was led from the room. "God forgive me, I'm so sorry."

"There's a psychiatric counselor attached to the department, Mr. DeBlass. I think your sister should see her."

"Yes." He said it absently, staring at the closed door. "She'll need someone. Something."

You all will, Eve thought. "Are you up to a few questions?"

"I don't know. He's a tyrant, difficult. But this makes him a monster. How am I to accept that my own father is a monster?"

"He has an alibi for the night of your daughter's death," Eve pointed out. "I can't charge him without more."

"An alibi?"

"The record shows that Rockman was with your father, working with him in his East Washington office until nearly two on the night of your daughter's death."

"Rockman would say whatever my father told him to say."

"Including covering up murder?"

"It's simply a matter of the easiest way out. Why should anyone believe my father is connected?" He shuddered once, as if blasted with a sudden chill. "Rockman's statement merely detaches his employer from any suspicion."

"How would your father travel back and forth to New York from East Washington if he wanted no record of the trip?"

"I don't know. If his shuttle went out, there would be a log."

"Logs can be altered," Roarke said.

"Yes." Richard looked up as if remembering all at once that his friend was there. "You'd know more about that than I."

"A reference to my smuggling days," Roarke explained to Eve. "Long behind me. It can be done, but it would require some payoffs. The pilot, perhaps the mechanic, certainly the air engineer."

"So I know where to put the pressure on." And if Eve could prove his shuttle had taken the trip on that night, she'd have probable cause. Enough to break him. "How much do you know about your father's weapon collection?"

"More than I care to." Richard rose on unsteady legs. He went to a cabinet, splashed liquor into a glass. He drank it fast, like medicine. "He enjoys his guns, often shows them off. When I was younger, he tried to interest me in them. Roarke can tell you, it didn't work."

"Richard believes guns are a dangerous symbol of power abuse. And I can tell you that yes, DeBlass occasionally used the black market."

"Why didn't you mention that before?"

"You didn't ask."

She let it drop, for now. "Does your father have a knowledge of security – the technical aspects?"

"Certainly. He takes pride in knowing how to protect himself. It's one of the few things we can discuss without disagreeing."

"Would you consider him an expert?"

"No," Richard said slowly. "A talented amateur."

"His relationship with Chief Simpson? How would you describe it?"

"Self-serving. He considered Simpson a fool. My father enjoys utilizing fools." Abruptly, he sank into a chair. "I'm sorry. I can't do this. I need some time. I need my wife."

"All right. Mr. DeBlass, I'm going to order surveillance on your father. You won't be able to reach him without being monitored. Please don't try."

"You think I'll try to kill him?" Richard gave a mirthless laugh and stared down at his own hands. "I want to. For what he did to my daughter, to my sister, to my life. I wouldn't have the courage."

When they were outside again, Eve headed straight for the car without looking at Roarke. "You suspected this?" she asked.

"That DeBlass was involved? Yes, I did."

"But you didn't tell me."

"No." Roarke stopped her before she could wrench open the door. "It was a feeling, Eve. I had no idea about Catherine. Absolutely none. I suspected that Sharon and DeBlass were having an affair."

"That's too clean a word for it."

"I suspected it," he continued, "because of the way she spoke of him during our single dinner together. But again, it was a feeling, not a fact. That feeling would have done nothing to enhance your case. And," he added, turning her to face him, "once I got to know you, I kept that feeling to myself, because I didn't want to hurt you." She jerked her head away. He brought it patiently back with his fingertips. "You had no one to help you?"

"It isn't about me." But she let out a shuddering breath. "I can't think about it, Roarke. I can't. I'll mess up if I do, and if I mess up, he could get away with it. With rape and murder, with abusing the children he should have been protecting. I won't let him."

"Didn't you say to Catherine that the only way to fight back was to tell?"

"I have work to do."

He fought back frustration. "I assume you'll want to go to the Washington Airport where DeBlass keeps his shuttle."

"Yes." She climbed in the car when Roarke walked around to get in the driver's side. "You can drop me at the nearest transport station."

"I'm sticking, Eve."

"All right, fine. I need to check in."

As he drove down the winding lane, she put in a call to Feeney. "I've got something hot here," she said before he could speak. "I'm on my way to East Washington."

"You've got something hot?" Feeney's voice was almost a song. "Didn't have to look farther than her final entry, Dallas, logged the morning of her murder. God knows why she took it to the bank. Blind luck. She had a date at midnight. You'll never guess who."

"Her grandfather."

Feeney goggled, sputtered. "Fuck it, Dallas, how'd you get it?"

Eve closed her eyes briefly. "Tell me it's documented, Feeney. Tell me she names him."

"Calls him the senator – calls him her old fart of a grand-daddy. And she writes pretty cheerfully about the five thousand she charges him for each boink. Quote: 'It's almost worth letting him slobber all over me – and there's a lot of energy left in dear old Granddad. The bastard. Five thousand every couple of weeks isn't such a bad deal. I sure as hell give him his money's worth. Not like when I was a kid and he used me. Table's turned. I won't turn into a dried up prune like poor Aunt Catherine. I'm thriving on it now. And one day, when it bores me enough, I'm sending my diaries to the media. Multiple copies. It drives the bastard crazy when I threaten to do that. Maybe I'll twist the knife a little tonight. Give the senator a good scare. Christ, it's wonderful to have the power to make him squirm after all he's done to me.'"

Feeney shook his head. "It was a long-time deal, Dallas. I've run through several entries. She earned a nice income from blackmail, and names names and deeds. But this puts the senator at her place on the night of her death. And that puts his balls in the old nutcracker."

"Can you get me a warrant?"

"Commander's orders are to patch it through the minute you called in. He says to pick him up. Murder One, three counts."

She let out a slow breath. "Where do I find him?"

"He's at the Senate building, hawking his Morals Bill."

"Fucking perfect. I'm on my way." She switched off, turned to Roarke. "How much faster can this thing go?"

"We'll find out."

If Whitney's orders hadn't come through with the warrant, instructing her to be discreet, Eve would have marched onto the Senate floor and cuffed him in front of his associates. Still, there was considerable satisfaction in the way it went down.

She waited while he completed his impassioned speech on the moral decline of the country, the insidious corruption that stemmed from promiscuity, conception control, genetic engineering. He expounded on the lack of morality in the young, the dearth of organized religion in the home, the school, the workplace. Our one nation under God had become godless. Our constitutional right to bear arms sundered by the liberal left. He touted figures on violent crime, on urban decay, on bootlegged drugs, all a result, the senator claimed, of our increasing moral decline, our softness on criminals, our indulgence in sexual freedom without responsibility.

It made Eve sick to listen.

"In the year 2016," she said softly, "at the end of the Urban Revolt, before the gun ban, there were over ten thousand deaths and injuries from guns in the borough of Manhattan alone."

She continued to watch DeBlass sell his snake oil while Roarke laid a hand at the base of her spine.

"Before we legalized prostitution, there was a rape or attempted rape every three seconds. Of course, we still have rape, because it has much less to do with sex than with power, but the figures have dropped. Licensed prostitutes don't have pimps, so they aren't beaten, battered, killed. And they can't use drugs. There was a time when women went to butchers to deal with an unwanted pregnancy. When they had to risk their lives or ruin them. Babies were born blind, deaf, deformed before genetic engineering and the research it made possible to repair in vitro. It's not a perfect world, but you listen to him and you realize it could be a lot worse."

"Do you know what the media is going to do to him when this hits?"

"Crucify him," Eve murmured. "I hope to God it doesn't make him a martyr."

"The voice of the moral right suspected of incest, trucking with prostitutes, committing murder. I don't think so. He's finished." Roarke nodded. "In more ways than one."

Eve heard the thunderous applause from the gallery. From the sound of it, DeBlass's team had been careful to pepper the spectators with their own.

Discretion be damned, she thought as the gavel was struck and an hour's recess was called. She moved through the milling aides, assistants, and pages until she came to DeBlass. He was being congratulated on his eloquence, slapped on the back by his senatorial supporters.

She waited until he saw her, until his gaze skimmed over her, then Roarke, until his mouth tightened. "Lieutenant. If you need to speak with me, we can adjourn briefly to my office. Alone. I can spare ten minutes."

"You're going to have plenty of time, senator. Senator DeBlass, you're under arrest for the murders of Sharon DeBlass, Lola Starr, and Georgie Castle." As he blustered in protest and the murmurs began, she lifted her voice. "Additional charges include the incestuous rapes of Catherine DeBlass, your daughter, and Sharon DeBlass, your granddaughter."

He was still standing, frozen in shock when she linked the restraints over his wrist, turned him, and secured his hands behind his back. "You are under no obligation to make a statement."

"This is an outrage." He exploded over the standard recitation of revised Miranda. "I'm a senator of the United States. This is federal property."

"And these two federal agents will escort you," she added. "You are entitled to an attorney or representative." As she continued to recite his rights, a flash from her eyes had the federal deputies and onlookers backing off. "Do you understand these rights?"

"I'll have your badge, you bitch." He began to wheeze as she muscled him through the crowd.

"I'll take that as a yes. Catch your breath, senator. We can't have you popping off with a cardiac." She leaned closer to his ear. "And you won't have my badge, you bastard. I'm going to have your ass." She turned him over to the federal agents. "They're waiting for him in New York," she said briefly.

She could hardly be heard now. DeBlass was screaming, demanding immediate release. The Senate had erupted with voices and bodies. Through it, she spotted Rockman. He came toward her, his face a cold mask of fury.

"You're making a mistake, lieutenant."

"No, I'm not. But you made one in your statement. The way I see it, that's going to make you accessory after the fact. I'm going to start working on that when I get back to New York."

"Senator DeBlass is a great man. You're nothing but a pawn for the Liberal Party and their plans to destroy him."

"Senator DeBlass is an incestuous child molester. A rapist and a murderer. And what I am, pal, is the cop who's taking him down. You'd better call a lawyer unless you want to sink with him."

Roarke had to force himself not to snatch her up as she swept through the hallowed Senate halls. Members of the media were already leaping toward her, but she cut through them as if they weren't there.

"I like your style, Lieutenant Dallas," he said when they'd fought their way to the car. "I like it a lot. And by the way, I don't think I'm in love with you anymore. I know I am."

She swallowed hard on the nausea rising in her throat. "Let's get out of here. Let's get the hell out of here."

Sheer force of will kept her steady until she got to the plane. It kept her voice flat and expressionless as she reported in to her superior. Then she stumbled, and shoving away from Roarke's supporting arms, rushed into the head to be wretchedly and violently ill.

On the other side of the door, Roarke stood helplessly. If he understood her at all, it was to know that comforting would make it worse. He murmured instructions to the flight attendant and took his seat. While he waited, he stared out at the tarmac.

He looked up when the door opened. She was ice pale, her eyes too big, too dark. Her usually smooth gait was coltish and stiff.

"Sorry. I guess it got to me."

When she sat, he offered a mug. "Drink this. It'll help."

"What is it?"

"It's tea, a whiff of whiskey."

"I'm on duty," she began, but his quick, vicious eruption cut her off.

"Drink, goddamn it, or I'll pour it into you." He flipped a switch and ordered the pilot to take off.

Telling herself it was easier than arguing, she lifted the mug, but her hands weren't steady. She barely managed to get a sip through her chattering teeth before she set it aside.

She couldn't stop shaking. When Roarke reached for her, she drew herself back. The sickness was still there, sliding slyly through her stomach, making her head pound evilly.

"My father raped me." She heard herself say it. The shock of it, hearing her own voice say the words, mirrored in her eyes. "Repeatedly. And he beat me, repeatedly. If I fought or I didn't fight, it didn't matter. He still raped me. He still beat me. And there was nothing I could do. There's nothing you can do when the people who are supposed to take care of you abuse you that way. Use you. Hurt you."

"Eve." He took her hand then, holding firm when she tried to yank free. "I'm sorry. Terribly sorry."

"They said I was eight when they found me, in some alley in Dallas. I was bleeding, and my arm was broken. He must have dumped me there. I don't know. Maybe I ran away. I don't remember. But he never came for me. No one ever came for me."

"Your mother?"

"I don't know. I don't remember her. Maybe she was dead. Maybe she was like Catherine's mother and pretended not to know. I only get flashes, nightmares of the worst of it. I don't even know my name. They weren't able to identify me."

"You were safe then."

"You've never been shuffled through the system. There's no feeling of safety. Only impotence. They strip you bare with good intentions." She sighed, let her head fall back, her eyes close. "I didn't want to arrest DeBlass, Roarke. I wanted to kill him. I wanted to kill him with my own hands because of what happened to me. I let it get personal."

"You did your job."

"Yeah. I did my job. And I'll keep doing it." But it wasn't the job she was thinking of now. It was life. Hers, and his. "Roarke, you've got to know I've got some bad stuff inside. It's like a virus that sneaks around the system, pops out when your resistance is low. I'm not a good bet."

"I like long odds." He lifted her hand, kissed it. "Why don't we see it through? Find out if we can both win."

"I've never told anybody before."

"Did it help?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Christ, I'm so tired."

"You could lean on me." He slipped an arm around her, nestled her head in the curve of his shoulder.

"For a little while," she murmured. "Until we get to New York."

"For a little while then." He pressed his lips to her hair and hoped she would sleep.