With Malice

“Very well.”

“What’s in the desk?”

“Just stationery, pens, pencils, pads, things like that. All my papers are in the file cabinets.”

She nodded and gave him what he supposed was meant to be an encouraging smile. “Could your computer have been tampered with?”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t think so. It’s password protected. But even if it were…I don’t keep much on it. Drafts of speeches I’m thinking of making, little things like that. When I’m in town, Detective, I’m usually busy with constituents, and any private time I have is largely for thinking, not doing. That computer is full of a lot of quick notes and thoughts, but little else. If someone were going to commit electronic theft for political gain, he’d be better off hacking into the network server at my office, in Washington. That’s where we do the real grunt work.”

She looked at the monitor and keyboard sitting on his desk. “Then I doubt anyone got into it. I’ll have someone check to make sure it hasn’t been physically tampered with. But given that our perp was clearly in a hurry, it’s not likely.”

She turned to him again. “Let’s take a look upstairs now.”

He followed her up the sweeping staircase, one of the features that Georgina, his late wife, had loved about this house. To him it had always seemed pretentious, something better suited to an antebellum mansion. But Georgina had had her eye even more firmly fixed on the presidency than he had. Sometimes he thought this house had been his wife’s rehearsal for the White House.

He dreaded what he might find up there. Signs of Stacy’s presence? What had she been doing here? They’d broken off months ago, in mutual realization of the cost. Stacy had been a wonderful woman, but both he and she had seen the handwriting on the wall.

He’d met her on the rebound from his wife’s death—strangely enough, not at the club where she worked, but in his local office, when she came to help stuff envelopes during his last campaign. But rebounds can only bounce for so long. Their parting had been amicable. Understanding. And he’d long since quietly found a way to make sure Stacy could open the dance studio she’d always dreamt of, rather than baring her body for strange men in a dark, noisy, impersonal bar.

He had thought their relationship had been secret from everyone but Jerry. What if it hadn’t been? What if someone had staged this murder simply to ruin him? Somehow that seemed more believable than that someone had committed two murders over S.R. 52.

He had the worst urge to tell the detective all of this, to clear his conscience, to remove himself from this terrible position of obstructing an investigation. Damn Jerry for putting him between a rock and a hard place.

And then he remembered his daughters. He couldn’t expose them to the scandal. He’d been through media feeding frenzies before. It had been by the skin of his teeth that he’d kept the press from discovering the truth about the auto accident that had killed his wife. Where she’d been coming from. Knowledge that, if made public, would have done nothing but cause more pain.

So he’d managed to protect the girls that time. They still remembered their mother as an angel who’d been stolen from them. They deserved that memory—however inaccurate he knew it to be—and he would do anything to protect it.

God, he hated this.

His room was first, to the right. A suite from which he’d erased all vestiges of his wife. It was spare now, with white walls, heavy brown velvet curtains and lots of dark wood. Masculine, almost monastic. His own eyrie. No woman set foot in here save the cleaning crew and his daughters. A wave of relief crashed through him when he saw the bed was carefully made. He’d feared he might find the brown duvet tossed back, evidence of Stacy’s presence.

The children’s rooms were undisturbed. They had a bright airy space, a playroom full of toys, with their bedrooms opening off it to either side. Then there was the formal guest room, untouched for years.

And to the rear, Abby’s room. Her own retreat, filled with tatting and embroidery, flowery cushions, curtains and bed linen. The rocking chair, in which he would forever see Abby, stood still and empty.

The bedcovers were tossed back, indicating that she had left her bed to go downstairs. No light was on except the night-light Abby kept so the children could find her if they needed her during the night. Her bathroom was neat as a pin, as it always was.

The photos on her dresser were of him, at all stages of his life, from infancy on, and of his growing daughters.

When Grant saw them, he could no longer contain himself. He sat in the rocking chair where he had been comforted so many times as a child and began to weep.

Karen was discomfited by Grant Lawrence’s breakdown. It wasn’t that she hadn’t seen them often during her years on the force, especially since it was so often her job to break the bad news.

But Grant Lawrence was different. To her he had somehow always seemed a magical being, his footprints gilded as he strode through life. She knew about his wife’s tragic death, of course, and remembered how he had emerged from that period with the first gray showing in his hair. The story of the horrific childhood injury that had left him with an almost imperceptible limp was the stuff of political legend. But these potholes in an otherwise star-kissed life had only seemed to strengthen him.

Now she was faced with the fact that the mythical being, the possible next president of the United States, was only human after all. His grief was deep and raw, and she had to battle an urge to put an arm around him and try to comfort him.

Instead, she did what she was trained to do. She walked away, looking out the sliding glass doors of Abby’s room onto a balcony that had a view of the gardens, delicate and vital, carefully-sculpted paths among splashes of azalea and bougainvillea, orchid and mum, bamboo and palm, disparate and yet melding together into a whole that spoke volumes about the man who sat behind her, sobbing.

These people, she thought, had more money than she could imagine. Most of it had come from his film tycoon parents, although she knew he had managed to make some of his own fortune, both before and since his ascension to the Senate. But regardless of where it came from, it was more than she could imagine having.

It was a world so different from hers that she found it difficult to connect with. Unlike many, she didn’t begrudge the wealthy their good fortune; she simply couldn’t imagine what their world must be like. Standing here now, she felt she was looking through a window into places where the ordinary woes of life never intruded.

But that wasn’t true. The roses in that garden had thorns, and she had no doubt that a gardener had to pull the same kinds of weeds she struggled with in the tiny plot beside her own home. Behind her a very powerful man was weeping like a baby over the death of his nanny. Reality intruded here, too, in its ugliest forms.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice, sounding raw and thick, reached her.

“Don’t apologize, Senator,” she said, without turning. “You’re entitled to your grief.”

“Yes, but I’m sure your job is already difficult enough.”

She started a little, surprised by his perception. Surprised by his kindness. Very few people in his position were ever aware of hers. Very few considered that she might find it almost as difficult to be the bearer of bad news as they found it to receive it. But this was the quality she’d always found admirable in him, she reminded herself: his ability to put himself in the shoes of others.

“It’s okay,” she said, a little too quickly. “I’m used to it.”

“Really? Somehow I doubt it.”

She heard him blow his nose. Then the rocking chair creaked. He must be rising.

“I don’t see anything disturbed here,” he said. “It’s…obvious she climbed out of bed when she heard something.”

“So it would appear.” She turned to look at him again and felt a tug on her heart when she saw the redness of his eyes. “Tell me about Abby.”

“What do you need to know?”

“The kind of person she was.”

Grant came to stand by her at the doors and looked out on the garden. “Tough. She was very tough. When I was a child, she protected me fiercely. I remember once she chased some paparazzi away from the windows of my parents’ house.” A faint smile curved his mouth. “She grabbed up a broom and went after them. They never came back.” He turned his head, and their gazes met. “She protected my children the same way.”

“She was getting old.”

“Yes. But she was family. I know people tried to make an issue out of her race years back, but she’d come into this family when she was fifteen years old, and by the time I was born, there was no question but what Abby was family. Part of us, made so by love.” He paused for a moment. “You know, a former advisor once said I should get rid of her. Said her presence in my life harkened back to an ugly period in the history of the south. I fired him on the spot. I’d sooner have thrown out my mother.”

“What about her family?”

“She had none. She was an orphan.” His gaze grew distant and drifted back to the garden. “Do you know how she came to my family?”

“No.”

“My grandfather took Abby in after her entire family was killed in a church bombing. The Klan. The bomb killed seven people, including Abby’s parents and her older brother. Abby was sick that night. She’d stayed home.

“So my grandfather took her in. At this late date, I’m not sure of what he intended, but I do know he was outraged by the event. Anyway, my dad was five, and Abby seemed to take to caring for him. And that’s where it began.”

“And she never wanted to leave?”

“She never gave any indication if she did. She had a romance once, this really dapper guy my dad still has pictures of. But then one day she announced he was shiftless, and that was the end of that.”