Ballots and Blood Read online

  Copyright © 2011 by Ralph Reed

  All rights reserved.

  Printed in the United States of America

  978-1-4336-6925-5

  Published by B&H Publishing Group,

  Nashville, Tennessee

  Dewey Decimal Classification: F

  Subject Heading: MYSTERY FICTION POLITICAL CORRUPTION—FICTION WASHINGTON (DC)—FICTION

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Author is represented by the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920, www.alivecommunications.com.

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 • 15 14 13 12 11

  To Christopher

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  1

  An unmarked blue Ford Crown Victoria carrying a District of Columbia police detective pulled up in front of a pre-World War II, three-story redbrick townhouse in the upscale Georgetown section of Washington, DC. The detective slid out of the car, the summer heat hitting him like a furnace blast, the air heavy and almost choking. DC was like a paved swamp in the summertime, he thought. As he stepped to the curb, he glanced in either direction to survey the street for any suspicious persons (an instinctive response honed over twenty-two years of police work) and nodded at the patrolman standing on the sidewalk. He opened the iron gate to the small garden out front and descended to the basement.

  Inside, his eyes adjusted to the semidarkness. A second patrolman stood in what appeared to be a reception area-living room, its floor covered with a bland industrial carpet.

  “What do ya got?” asked the detective, dispensing with formalities.

  “White male, approximately sixty,” said the patrolman. “Based on the condition of the body, I’d say he’s been dead for a while.”

  The detective nodded. “Show me.”

  The officer led him to a door and a second set of stairs, which creaked as they descended. A pungent smell filled their nostrils, a noxious mixture of sweat, blood, leather, and death. A fly buzzed. When they reached the bottom, the detective surveyed the room. An empty cage sat in the corner, a wooden table with leather straps at the ends, a wall rack with whips hanging from it—the equipment of a faux-torture chamber.

  “It’s a dungeon,” said the officer.

  “So I see,” said the detective. He stooped and studied the body. The man’s flesh was pale with a gray pallor, soft and cool to the touch. His hands and feet were bound with leather restraints. He wore a black leather mask. Had the victim accidentally suffocated? Reddish-purple contusions flecked his shoulders, back, and buttocks. The lower limbs were discolored, indicating a settling of blood. The victim had been dead for hours.

  “What do you think? A whip, maybe?” asked the detective, pointing to the bruises.

  “Looks like it,” said the officer. “There’s plenty of ’em. And riding crops. I didn’t notice anything missing.”

  “We’ll have to wait for the autopsy to find out how he died. I doubt a whip was the murder weapon. We’ll get prints. That’ll lead to whoever worked here. My hunch is there will be plenty of outstandings and priors,” said the detective. “Find out who owns the building.”

  “Roger that, sir.”

  The detective stared at the body. “Any ID on this guy?”

  “His clothes are in the changing room,” replied the officer, pointing to the corner of the basement.

  The detective walked to changing room. “Probably a lobbyist or corporate puke. Or a traveling businessman looking for a good time on the road.”

  “He got more than he bargained for,” said the officer.

  A crisp navy blue suit hung on a hook in front of a mirror, a red-and-blue striped tie draped over the hanger. A blue shirt in dry-cleaning plastic hung on a second hook. A pair of boxer shorts, meticulously folded, rested on the chair, navy blue socks lying across a pair of black wingtips. The detective patted the suit, feeling a bulge in the pants. He reached in and pulled out a wallet. Opening it, he found a Florida driver’s license. Reading the name, he let out an expletive.

  “What?” asked the officer.

  “Well, now we have what we refer to as a situation.” He reached into another suit pocket and pulled out some business cards, flipping through them, then closed the wallet and pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. He dialed a number, pausing while awaiting an answer, his gaze leveled at the officer. “I need the chief.”

  The chief of detectives came on the line. “What’s so important that you’re interrupting me?”

  “I’ve got a white male, sixty-two, bound and gagged in a Georgetown apartment retrofitted as a torture chamber. Somebody beat him up pretty bad. It appears he either choked to death or had a heart attack during the act,” said the detective. “I need a full crime scene unit stat. And I’m going to need a public affairs officer.”

  “Why?”

  “The body is Senator Perry Miller.”

  “What? Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Not exactly. His face is covered. But unless someone else is wearing his suit and carrying his driver’s license, yeah, it’s definitely Perry Miller.”

  The chief of detectives sighed. “This is going to be a cluster.”

  “Total.”

  “Sit tight,” said the chief. “The CSU will be there in ten minutes. Secure the building. No one goes in or out until it’s swept for prints. I mean no one. Pretty soon it’ll be a police convention, with badges standing around with their thumbs up their noses and the media crawling everywhere. For now, I don’t want a thread moved. Is that clear?”

  “Done.”

  “We might as well call the FBI. They’re going to show up anyway. Give them all the cooperation they need, if only to protect us, if you get my drift.”

  “Sadly, I do.”

  “What’s your location?”

  “321 M Street, NW.”

  “It’s probably nothing beyond what it looks like. A guy was having a good time, things got out of control, next thing you know you’ve got a dead body.”

  “Nelson Rockefeller, call your office.”

  “Right. But you never know. And given the victim, we need to tread carefully. This is going to be on the front page of every newspaper in America by tomorrow morning.”

  The detective hung up and turned to the patrolman. “Congratulations, officer. You just bought yourself a front row seat to a sex scandal.”

  A BLACK LINCOLN TOWN CAR pulled up slowly to the back gate
of the White House bearing Governor Kerry Cartwright of New Jersey. A uniformed guard scanned the driver’s licenses of the driver, Cartwright, and a personal aide. He surveyed their faces to establish a visual ID.

  “Good afternoon, Governor.”

  “Good afternoon,” replied Cartwright, shooting the aide a knowing smile.

  The guard waved the car through, the iron gates opening slowly with a creaking noise by remote control. The driver pulled into a spot just outside the West Wing with an orange cone placed in the center.

  Jay Noble’s assistant stood beneath the green awning of the entrance to the West Wing. She wore a smart blue skirt with a crisp white blouse, White House staff badge dangling conspicuously from her neck. As the car pulled up, she smiled officiously and greeted the governor.

  “Governor, so glad you could come. Jay’s with the president. He’ll meet you in the mess shortly. He asked me to go ahead and take you to your table.” She accompanied Cartwright and his aide down the narrow stairwell to the White House mess, greeting the host and leading the way to a private room.

  David Thomas, White House political director and manager of Bob Long’s presidential campaign, sat at a chair, head down, eyes peering at his BlackBerry screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

  “Governor!” he boomed a little too loudly when Cartwright entered, flashing a warm and expansive smile. “David Thomas, political director. Welcome.” He shook his hand vigorously.

  Cartwright, a bowling ball of a man with stooped posture, loping gait, forty pounds of excess weight, and a look of permanent bemusement on his countenance (as if to say, “How did I get this far, this fast?”), gripped his hand tightly, their eyes locked. “Good to be here, David.” He turned to his aide. “You know Bill Spadea on my team.”

  “Absolutely,” said Thomas, shaking Spadea’s hand. “He’s one of the best political operatives in America. Bill, your reputation precedes you.”

  At that instant the door swung open and Jay breezed in, immediately changing the room’s dynamics with his presence. Everyone wheeled to face him. “Is Thomas talking about himself again? I heard something about the best political operative in America.” Jay never resisted a chance to get a playful dig in on Thomas.

  Cartwright let out a belly laugh while Thomas and Spadea eyed each other warily, chuckling nervously. They all took their chairs as Jay waved over a white-coated waiter, who took drink orders.

  “The president says hello,” said Jay. “If you have time after lunch, we can swing by the Oval and see him before you leave.”

  “Terrific,” said Cartwright a little too enthusiastically.

  “So—how goes the Garden State?” asked Jay.

  Cartwright nodded. “We finally got the budget done,” he said with the relaxed sigh of an accountant after tax day. “It was a beast. The Democrats fought me to the bitter end.”

  Jay smiled knowingly. “We know the feeling, Governor.”

  “The session turned into a game of chicken with the Speaker of the House and the teachers’ unions, who have him wrapped around their finger. We won because I refused to give in to their demands. I pledged when I ran for governor I wouldn’t raise taxes, and I’ve kept it. In fact, I’ve cut property taxes three times.”

  “It’s amazing,” said Jay.

  “The press—and especially the New York Times—is crucifying him,” said Spadea as he took a sip of Diet Coke. “But all it does is remind people he’s a man of his word. The governor’s job approval is 68 percent. That’s the highest number he’s ever had.”

  “We know,” interjected Thomas. “Why do you think we’re having lunch?”

  Everyone laughed. The waiter reappeared with drinks and took everyone’s order. Cartwright ordered a cup of chicken noodle soup, clear evidence he was back on a diet in anticipation of another campaign.

  “So have you figured out how to handle Sal Stanley yet?” joked Cartwright after the waiter left the table.

  Everyone laughed again.

  “Actually, we have,” said Jay, leaning forward, his countenance radiating intensity. “We’re gonna beat him.”

  Cartwright was stunned. “You really think you can beat Stanley?”

  “Like a drum,” said Jay.

  “Nothing would make us happier,” said Spadea. “The guy’s negatives are high and he’s a polarizing figure. But he’s got eighteen million bucks in the bank and has a gun to the head of every lobbyist in town. It’s a shake-down operation. No one wants to cross him because they know he plays dirty.”

  “That can be turned into a liability,” said Thomas. “Washington insider, pay-to-play, corrupt deals.”

  Cartwright and Spadea nodded, their facial expressions telegraphing skepticism.

  “You know, it’s funny,” said Cartwright. “I’ve always had a good relationship with Sal. Sure, he helped my opponent in the gubernatorial race, but he didn’t like him, so he only did what he had to. He called me the morning after the election and said, ‘Whatever you need for New Jersey, I’m a phone call away.’ I can’t say this publicly, but we’ve had a good working relationship for the most part.”

  “I’m glad somebody does,” deadpanned Jay. “We sure don’t.”

  “That’s all about the presidential race,” said Spadea.

  “He can’t let it go,” added Thomas.

  “We can beat him,” said Jay. “He’s seen as partisan. He’s badly wounded after failing to stop Marco Diaz’s nomination to the Supreme Court. If Mike Kaplan is convicted, his senior advisor will be going to prison.” He popped a saltine cracker in his mouth, chewing it vigorously. “Besides, I’ve got the perfect candidate to run against him.”

  “Really? Who?” asked Cartwright.

  “You.”

  Cartwright nearly spewed out chicken soup. Spadea visibly flinched. “Whoa, hold on a minute!” exclaimed Cartwright. “I’m running for reelection as governor.”

  “Why? You’ve already done that. You’ve got nothing left to prove,” replied Jay with what was clearly a rehearsed line. “If you’re reelected governor, you’ll serve a second term and fade into the woodwork, your popularity declining by the day. But if you beat Sal Stanley and go to the U.S. Senate . . . well, you’ll be a rock star.”

  “The voters will understand,” said Thomas reassuringly. “They don’t lose a governor, they gain a senator and a national figure. It’s kind of like when your daughter gets married. You don’t lose a daughter. You gain a son-in-law.”

  “I don’t know if I want to be a senator,” stammered Cartwright. “I’ve got the only job in politics I always wanted.”

  Jay leaned forward, his eyes locking on his target. “Governor, with all due respect, this isn’t about you. It’s about the country. You can beat Stanley. And when you do, you’ll be a giant killer. You’ll headline fund-raisers from coast to coast. I’m not asking you to say yes today. I’m asking you to think about it.”

  Cartwright stared back. He swallowed. “I’ll think about it. But I don’t want to give you any false encouragement.”

  “I don’t need any, false or otherwise,” volleyed Jay.

  There were three quick raps on the door, and Jay’s assistant appeared wearing an anxious expression on her face. “Jay, Charlie Hector needs to speak with you. You can take it here.”

  Jay picked up the receiver on a house phone on the credenza. “Charlie?”

  “Jay, I’m afraid I have some sad news. Perry Miller was just found dead in a Georgetown apartment.”

  “What? How?”

  “We don’t know all the details yet, but it looks like a sexual encounter that went terribly awry. We just got the heads-up from the FBI.”

  Jay bent over, leaning on the credenza, absorbing the news. “Thanks for letting me know. I’m in the mess with Governor Cartwright. I’ll call you back when I get out of this meeting.” He hung up the phone.

  “What was that?” asked Thomas.

  “Oh, nothing,” Jay lied. “Charlie just needed to ch
eck in on something.” Before he could retake his seat, the phone rang again. Jay screwed up his face. “What is this, Grand Central Station?” he asked. He picked up the receiver. “Yes. Yes. Alright, we’ll be right down.” He placed the phone down and turned to Cartwright. “Want to see the president?”

  “Sure,” said Cartwright, oozing anticipation.

  They left lunch half eaten and headed up the stairs and through the West Wing lobby on their way to the Oval. Jay walked shoulder to shoulder with Cartwright, who moved with a spring in his step. Jay’s mind was already elsewhere, specifically Florida. A thought rattled around in his brain: with a little luck they might be able to pick up the Senate seat vacated by the death of Perry Miller.

  2

  News of Perry Miller’s death rocketed across DC within minutes. Details were sketchy and sordid, fueled by bloggers monitoring police scanners. Miller’s body landed like a whale in the Internet slime machine. Merryprankster.com’s headline was typical and lurid: “Senator Dead in Bondage Game Gone Awry!”

  The dispatch’s lead reported breathlessly: “In a capital where people thought they had seen it all, the death of Senator Perry Miller in the basement of a Georgetown apartment retrofitted as a torture chamber in what appeared to be a bondage game shocked official Washington.” Miller, the powerful chairman of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, “was one of the most respected voices on foreign affairs in the world. Presidents and prime ministers counted him an advisor and friend. Now he is dead, apparently the victim of accidental asphyxiation at the hands of a dominatrix he secretly saw as often as once a week.” Married to his college sweetheart for thirty-seven years, with four children and nine grandchildren, Miller was a centrist Democrat who seemingly practiced family values in his own life.

  Politicians of both parties flooded media outlets with statements honoring Miller’s memory and mourning his death. “Perry Miller’s loss will be keenly felt by a saddened nation,” said President Long in an official statement. “He was a courageous voice for human rights and democratic values around the world who opposed tyranny in all its ugly forms. I benefited often from his counsel, and our country will miss his leadership. Today America has lost a great leader and a selfless public servant.”