Mortal Friends (22 page)

T
ucker’s was a simple, no-frills restaurant on Connecticut Avenue, just down the street from Politics and Prose, one of the last independent bookstores in Washington. Grider said he liked it because he could have a meal and then go buy a book, or the other way around if he was dining alone. The home-style eatery had a bar at one end, long wooden communal tables in the center, and smaller tables off to the side. It smelled of homey cooking aromas. The host knew Grider. He greeted the senator warmly and showed us to a table for two in a darkish isolated corner. I sat on the wooden banquette. Grider sat opposite me on a chair. My paper placemat was decorated with engravings of all the U.S. presidents. Grider’s placemat featured a map of the United States. Our utensils were folded into red-and-white-check paper napkins. The setting was about as romantic as a fishing camp.

The host handed us menus and took our drinks order. I ordered a glass of white wine. Grider ordered a beer.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” I said.

“Beer’s not drinking. Beer’s a food group,” he said with a grin.

There were only two appetizers and two entrées to choose from. Grider recommended the iceberg lettuce wedge topped with blue cheese and the whole grilled bass.

“This place is part-owned by a Greek fella,” he said. “Trust me, the Greeks know how to grill fish.”

Our drinks came. The waiter took our orders, and we relaxed.

“How’d you ever find this place?” I asked him, trying to hide the skepticism in my voice.

“Don’t judge a book by its cover,” he said. I got the feeling he was referring to more than just the restaurant.

“Saw you talking to your old friend Bob Poll. I was glad to hear he got married,” he said.

“Really? Why is that?”

“’Cause it meant you weren’t going out with him anymore…. Can I ask you a personal question?”

“Depends.” I braced myself.

“You ever get your twenty thousand dollars from the Rinehart gal?”

“No. Unfortunately.”

“Oh.”

“Why?”

“Just wondering, that’s all.”

“How come you’re so interested in Cynthia?” I asked him.

“She’s an interesting gal. She made a big splash with that hundred-million-dollar contribution to the Kennedy Center. Got my attention.”

“She got mine when she ran off with my best friend’s husband.”

“Mr. Potomac Bank. That’s what I call a keeper.”

“
Please
…I hate her, okay? She’s ruined my friend Violet’s life. She stiffed me. And I’ll tell you something else. She makes these splashy contributions, gets all the publicity, then she withdraws them on some flimsy pretext.”

Grider’s eyes narrowed. “You know that for a fact?”

“Absolutely.” I told him about Constance Morely’s lupus foundation and the rumor about the Folger. “Violet’s keeping track of everything. She’s obsessed with Cynthia. She’s even got a private detective checking into her background. If you want to talk to someone about her, talk to Violet.”

“Uh-huh. What else did your friend Violet tell you about her?”

“Well, it’s no secret that Cynthia thinks she owns the Kennedy Center. I guess in a way, she does. You should talk to Carmen Appleton and Peggy Myers about that. They have to work with her. You know what Peggy told Violet the other day?”

“Like to hear it.”

“Peggy’s the president of the Capitol Symphony, as you know. Well, apparently, Cynthia isn’t happy with Leonid Slobovkin, the conductor.”

“I’m a symphony goer. I know Maestro Slobovkin.”

“So his contract’s up this fall, and Cynthia wants Peggy to appoint Nelson Mars as the new conductor.
Nelson Mars!
”

“Who’s that?”

“You never heard of Nelson Mars? He’s this pop conductor. He’ll make Beethoven sound like Beyoncé.”

“Who’s Beyoncé?”

“Never mind. Nelson Mars isn’t the right person for that orchestra, okay? And furthermore, Peggy doesn’t want him, and she’s the president, so it should be her choice, right? But the Trailblazer is butting in.”

“The Trailblazer?”

“Oh, that’s what we all call Cynthia because that’s how she referred to herself in that big article in the
Post
. She said, ‘Call me a trailblazer.’ So that’s what we call her. Except that she’s blazing a trail straight to hell, if you ask me.”

The waiter set down our appetizers as I rambled on with other grievances. Grider sat there like a big blotter, chomping on his lettuce wedge, soaking it all in. When I’d finished my spiel, he said quietly, “I don’t know why you ladies think Ms. Rinehart owns the Kennedy Center.”

“Because she gave them a hundred million dollars, that’s why. She who gives the most money
owns
,” I said, as if it were obvious.

Grider leaned back in the rickety chair. “Well, now, as a matter of fact, she hasn’t given them the money
yet
. In fact, she doesn’t ever have to give it until Congress comes up with the matching funds.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Kennedy Center’s a creature of the federal government. That’s why the chairman and the board members serve at the pleasure of the president. He appoints them. The hundred million dollars Ms. Rinehart has pledged is contingent upon a matching grant from Congress. Provision for that grant is tacked onto the Energy Bill, which is stalled in committee at this moment. I know this ’cause I’ve been trying to get it passed.”

“Wait…. You’re saying she never has to give the money?”

“Not unless that bill passes.”

“What are the odds?”

“Ice cube’s chance in Hades.”

“So you mean to tell me she’s gotten all this publicity and recognition for money that she’ll
never
give?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

I was amazed. “How come people don’t know about this?”

“A lot of people do. But Ms. Rinehart also gives a million dollars a year to the center, which is independent of that grant.”

“Yes, but she practically spends that on the parties she gives there. And meanwhile, she’s making big splashes all over town by donating money, getting a lot of attention, and then finding some excuse to withdraw the funds. Look what she did to poor Constance Morely. The minute Constance introduced her to the prime minister, she reneged on most of the pledge.”

“Sometimes it’s not so easy to renege on a pledge. Some of these big fellas make you sign a commitment, and they’ll sue you sure as shootin’ if you try and get out of it.”

I shook my head in disgust. “And this is the woman who Grant Bolton thinks walks on water.”

“Well, now the Boltons
are
a philanthropic family. They have a big foundation. They do a lot with no fanfare. Old school.”

“I know. I told you, Violet’s my best friend. She’s going to be very interested to hear this. So, would you say that Cynthia’s doing anything illegal?”

“Well, now, that depends on if she’s violating any regulations.”

“What regulations?”

“The regulations governing the status of a 501(c)(3) foundation, which is a charitable, nonprofit, gift-giving foundation. See, now, if you were a little more interested in politics, you’d know that I am very interested in foundations.”

“Why?”

“Why am I interested?”

“I mean, why foundations particularly?”

Grider put down his knife and fork and leaned in across the table. Watching him answer my question was like watching a piece of coal warm up and glow.

“Foundations in this country gave away close to forty-three billion dollars last year. Philanthropy is big business. Any time big amounts of money are involved, people are gonna try and cheat the system. It’s just human nature. I don’t like it when rich people cheat. I don’t like self-dealing. I don’t like it when the well-off and the well-heeled use a charitable foundation to line their own pockets. I like charity to go where it belongs: to the needy, the poor, the suffering, and the deserv
ing. I’ve held hearings on foundation abuse. I’ve called for legislative action to stop it. And yet it continues because people are greedy, and greed fuels greed. There’s a dangerous feeling around that once people get theirs, they are free to do as they please, and laws don’t matter. Well, let me tell you something, young lady,” he said, his eyes burning with indignation, “a country cannot survive on the impropriety of its wealthiest classes.”

Grider slumped back into his chair and sipped his beer. He looked sheepish, like he knew he’d gotten carried away. It was the first time I’d seen real passion in the man.

“Wow. You really care about this issue, don’t you?” I said.

“Yup. I do. You know in the Bible where it says it’s easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven? Well, that’s why rich people invented loopholes—so they can get into heaven without suffering,” he said.

“I would not like to have you as my enemy, Senator.”

Grider paused. “Like to have me as your friend?”

S
enator Grider and I started “keeping company,” as he liked to put it. But that didn’t mean we saw each other every day. Socially, Washington was what Grider referred to as “a Tuesday Wednesday town,” because so many members of Congress commuted back and forth to their constituencies on weekends. The senator flew back and forth to Nebraska a lot. The arrangement suited me perfectly. Our relationship was decorous, with handholding and a little “smooching,” as he called it, but no sex. I didn’t really want to sleep with him, and fortunately, he didn’t press me.

During this period, I saw much less of Gunner. I figured it was because the case was closed. But then I found out that he was spending quite a lot of time with Violet. The two of them had become great pals all of a sudden. I admit I was a little jealous. After all, Gunner was
my
friend first, and I’d helped him crack his big case. Yet now he seemed more interested in Violet than in me.

One day he called up and asked if we could go for a walk. I’d been cooped up in the shop, and I was ready for some air. I told Polo to mind the store while I stepped out for a while. I met Gunner up at the Oak Hill Cemetery for old times’ sake. The grounds were an oasis of tranquillity in the spring, with flowering trees and emerald green lawns.

Gunner seemed very distracted, and when I asked him why he wanted to see me, he said, “It’s about the case.”

There was only one case in Gunner’s life. He was still obsessed with the Beltway Basher murders, despite the fact that the killer was in custody—thanks in large part to my tip.

“Reven, I need you to tell me the truth about something. It’s important.”

“Okay,” I said warily.

“Did you ever tell Violet about me when you first became my snitch?”

“No!” I cried, feigning surprise. I didn’t want him to think I’d betrayed him. It was kind of like politics: if I told him the truth, he’d never trust me again.

He stopped in his tracks. “Do me a favor. Don’t ever commit a serious crime.”

“What do you mean?”

“Because you can’t lie worth shit,” he said.

I hung my head. We walked on. “Okay, maybe I mentioned it.”

“
When?
”

“I don’t know.”

“From the git-go?”

“Maybe,” I said sheepishly.

He shook his head in disgust. “That explains it.”

“What?”

“How she knew about Nancy Sawtelle’s calendar. She said she read about it in the paper. But it hasn’t been in the paper. You told her, right?”

I nodded. “I shouldn’t have, I know. But it was all a game to me then, Gunner. I didn’t really take it seriously until Amber. I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry…. Anyway, why is that important now? You’ve got Wardell or Maxwell or whatever he’s called in custody.”

“There are some other aspects that I still find interesting.”

“Like?”

“Like, who was Nancy Sawtelle tracking? I don’t think she was tracking Wardell.”

“Does it matter?”

“Matters to me. See, Wardell’s now admitted to doing three of the women—Bianca Symonds, Maria Dixon, and Amber. But he hasn’t admitted to the others. He probably thinks that gives him some bargaining power.”

“Why does that give him bargaining power? He admits to killing three women.”

“If you were the parents of one of those girls, you’d understand!” Gunner shot back angrily.

I was pretty shocked at how vehement he was on this subject. I guess being a homicide detective, he understood the long consequences of murder a lot more than most people—the grief and the frustration, and most of all, the grand silence the victim’s family has to endure.

He saw my startled reaction and softened his tone.

“Look, suppose your child is murdered. She’s dead and buried, and part of you as a parent is dead and buried right alongside her. Well, you need to know that your kid’s killer isn’t still out there, enjoying life, laughing at the cops, maybe killing again. You need to know they’ve got him, and that he’s gonna pay for what he did, for what he stole from her and from you. You need to
know
. Can you understand that?”

“Yes.” I thought I saw Gunner wipe a tear from the corner of his eye. “Are you crying?” I asked him.

“No. Just got something in my eye, is all,” he said irritably. “So anyway, until this creep Wardell confesses to all six murders, the police are never gonna be sure. We need to be sure. And he knows that. That’s his power—his sick, controlling little piece of power in this world. I think he wants to make us believe there’s another guy out there violating innocent girls and bashing in their skulls.”

“But you don’t think that, do you? You think he acted alone, right?”

“You can’t be a hundred percent sure of anything until there’s proof or a confession.”

“Wait. You don’t still think Bob Poll’s involved somehow, do you?” I said.

“We have no proof whatsoever that he is. And, believe me, they went over every inch of his place and his life with a fine-tooth comb.”

“But you think he’s involved. I know you do. You always have. So do you and Violet discuss this case ad nauseam?”

“Lemme tell you something. Your friend knows more about serial killers and the way they think than half the guys in my department,” he said admiringly.

“Yeah, I can just hear you two discussing the finer points of dismemberment.”

“She’s had some brilliant insights.”

“You know what I think, Gunner? I think you have a crush on Violet.”

“I don’t.”

“Are you sure? I mean, she’s very needy at the moment. And you’re a big one for damsels in distress.”

“I don’t have a crush on her,” he assured me.

“Well, you certainly see enough of her. She tells me you’re over there all the time.”

He paused and slid his dark eyes onto mine. “Jealous?”

“No! Well…maybe a little. Violet always winds up doing better than I do in life.” I sighed.

“Say what?”

“I’ve told you the whole story about how when we were in school, I was the Valkyrie and she was the troll. Then she wound up on top. Of course, now she’s back down again, and we’re on more of an equal footing. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t begrudge her her success—honestly, I don’t. But why is she so interesting to you?”

“Violet interests me because she’s interested in the same things I’m interested in.”

“Yeah—bludgeon, sweat, and tears. You two are a pair of ghouls.”

Gunner chuckled. “I think your pal Violet likes to talk about violent crime because it’s unexpected coming from someone like her. Makes her stand out. Makes her shine in a weird kinda way.”

“Are you going over there this afternoon?” I asked him.

“Thought I might drop by.”

“I’m coming with you.”

Violet was out in the garden when Gunner and I arrived. Since Grant left her, she’d thrown herself into gardening with a vengeance, taking out all her frustration on the earth. Whenever I went to visit her she was either weeding like a maniac or trimming the life out of some poor hedge. Kerry Blockley, her longtime gardener, told me she dug soil fast enough to be a union gravedigger.

Violet greeted us in her usual costume—jeans, a long shirt, a floppy straw hat, and old moccasins. Her hands were covered with dirt. Her face glowed with sweat. She seemed pleased to see us and to take a
break from her labors.

The Ancient Maureener brought us a pitcher of iced tea and homemade lemon cookies on a silver tray. The three of us sat out on the patio. I tried to enjoy the lovely weather while Violet and Gunner discussed serial killers who acted in pairs. Violet spoke with disconcerting authority on the subject.

“A lot of serial killers have accomplices,” she explained as she sipped her tea. “Sometimes when people get together, they become a lot more violent than they would if they were on their own, right, Gunner? Look at the Moors murderers, Myra Hindley and Ian Brady, or the Hillside Stranglers, Angelo Buono and Kenneth Bianchi, or Leonard Lake and Charles Ng, who filmed their victims being raped and tortured. Individually, those people may or may not have committed murder. But those couples were diabolic. They fueled each other’s bloodlust. It’s all very psychologically complex. But if you don’t believe me, read
In Cold Blood
.”

“So you think Wardell might have had a partner?” I said.

“Possibly. I’m not just saying this to be provocative, Reven, because he was such a shit to you, okay? But I wouldn’t be surprised if Bob Poll knows more than he’s letting on.”

Gunner turned to me and said, “See? I told you she was an interesting girl.”

“That’s because she agrees with you. Gunner’s always thought Bob was involved, haven’t you, Gunner?” I said.

“Let me put it this way. My soul is not entirely rested.”

“Mr. Wardell hasn’t confessed to all of the crimes, so I definitely think there’s more of a story there. More tea, anyone?” Violet said, lifting the pitcher.

Violet was a different person around Gunner. She played yet another role: ladylike crime buff to his seasoned detective. He seemed to regard her with what I thought was amused wonder, probably because her genteel surroundings were such an incongruous backdrop to her vast knowledge of unspeakable perversions. But he also listened quite closely to what she said, as if he respected her opinion and her observations.

“So how come a nice girl like you is so interested in all this dark stuff?” Gunner said, half joking, half not.

I’d asked Violet that a million times. She never answered me. She
always just laughed and told me about some other fiend. This time, however, Violet didn’t laugh. She stared at Gunner and thought for a long moment.

“I’m not sure,” she began hesitantly. “Maybe…maybe it’s because growing up, I lived in a house full of secrets. I didn’t know what they were, but I knew they were around me—like shadows. And when you’re a kid, you imagine the very worst, like goblins hiding in the closet and bogeymen coming to get you through the window. So I guess serial killers are the real-life versions of goblins and bogeymen. You never really outgrow things, do you?’

When we left, I said to Gunner, “Don’t you think Violet would have made a great detective?”

“Or a great criminal,” he responded with a smile.