Ballots and Blood Read online

  But these eulogies competed with tabloid condemnation. To many Miller’s death was yet another example of a politician revealed as a fraud. “Perry Miller is the latest in a string of politicians who claimed the mantle of family and values but proved to be a phony and a hypocrite,” said the head of far-left advocacy group People for the Separation of Religion and Politics. Beyond the Monday-morning, maudlin moralizing lay a stark reality for Democrats: Miller’s death put in play a Senate seat considered safe by both parties. Who might replace Miller and whether they could hold the seat in the next election would have huge implications for whether Democrats could maintain control of the U.S. Senate.

  SALMON P. STANLEY SAT IN the majority leader’s spacious, stately office in the Capitol, its view of the Mall stretching all the way to the Washington Monument. But Stanley was not soaking in the view. He was bonding with Yehuda Serwitz, Israeli ambassador to the U.S. and one of the savviest operators in DC.

  “Yehuda, you gotta trust me on this one,” said Stanley forcefully, stabbing the air with his index finger. “Do us both a favor and tell your friends at AIPAC to back off. I don’t need ‘dear colleague’ letters demanding the Iran sanctions bill be reported out of committee.” He sighed in disgust. “When is AIPAC going to get it? This makes it all about the Jews. It’s bad optics. We need it to be about U.S. national security interests.”

  Serwitz chuckled, unfazed. “So they’re my friends now, huh? Last time I checked, they were your friends.”

  Stanley laughed. “Of course they’re my friends, but they’re still a major pain. I can get the sanctions bill out of the Foreign Relations Committee and on the floor next week. What I need are your friends in the Jewish community to tell the Republicans not to offer a bunch of amendments authorizing a military strike or war. If everyone acts like adults, I can pass it in a day by unanimous consent and get it out of conference committee in two weeks.”

  “That’s outstanding, Senator,” cooed Serwitz. “I’ll tell the prime minister.”

  “You do that. Give her my best. And make sure the heavy hitters in the Jewish community know I personally got this done. I’ve got a tough campaign coming up, and I need them on my team.”

  “You really think you’ll have a difficult reelect?” asked Serwitz, surprised. “I would think people in New Jersey like the fact their senator is majority leader.”

  “Depends on what day it is,” said Stanley with no hint of irony. “I always run scared and like I’m behind. Jay Noble and Bob Long are coming after me with hammer and tongs. They despise me.” He paused. “And the feeling is mutual, I assure you.”

  “Sounds like Israeli politics,” said Serwitz. “Everything is a grudge match, and the long knives are always out.”

  “Welcome to my world, my friend. Thanks for calling.” Stanley hung up the phone. Two knocks came on the door. In walked his press secretary wearing a shocked facial expression. “What?” asked Stanley.

  “Sir, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but . . . Perry Miller’s dead.”

  “My God! How?”

  “They found his body in a townhouse in Georgetown. The news just hit the wires and the Web sites. The cable nets are going live with it right now.”

  “What was he doing in Georgetown? We have votes today.”

  “Unclear, sir. It looks like he was asphyxiated in some kind of sex game that got out of hand.” He paused. “We’re going to need to get out a statement.”

  Stanley slumped in his seat. “I . . . I can’t believe it.” He paused. “Don’t allude to the cause of death. Say something like, ‘Perry Miller was a close friend and colleague for over twenty years. He always put his country ahead of party and principle ahead of politics and served our nation with distinction and honor. My heart goes out to his wife Mabel and their four children as we mourn his loss with them.’ Something like that.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get you a draft.”

  The door closed behind the press aide. Stanley walked to the large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Mall, lost in thought. The Iran sanctions bill was scheduled to go to the floor the following week, and it would now fall to Stanley to select a new chairman of Foreign Relations. His mind raced. The next ranking Democrat by seniority already chaired the Commerce Committee, so he was out. The second ranking was a lightweight and a self-righteous preener. With war clouds threatening with Iran, might he have to throw seniority out the window and muscle in his own choice as chairman? It was not something he wanted to contemplate.

  KERRY CARTWRIGHT LOPED INTO THE Oval Office greeted by the smile and extended hand of President Robert W. Long and felt his knees buckle.

  “Governor!” boomed Long affectionately. “Thanks for coming.”

  “So good to see you, Mr. President,” replied Cartwright.

  Long, beaming, directed him to sit in one of the wingback chairs at the head of the sitting area. Jay Noble sat down on the end of one of the two cream-colored couches to either side, his elbow on a throw pillow, his eyes studiously focused on notes written on the legal pad resting on his lap. As he settled into the chair, Cartwright felt his heart racing.

  “Did you hear about Perry Miller?”

  “No,” said Cartwright. “What is it?”

  “He died. Looks like he had a heart attack.”

  “In the act,” interjected Jay. Long shot him a look of disapproval.

  “Oh, no,” replied Cartwright, a stunned expression on his face.

  “He was a patriot,” said Long. “I just talked to him for the last time the other day. We were working on the Iran sanctions bill. Johnny says he was a first-rate, stand-up guy, one of the finest men over there in the Senate.”

  “He was a rare breed. Those will be big shoes to fill.”

  “Yes, they will. And that’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” said Long, his eyes boring into Cartwright. “The Senate needs new blood. Sal Stanley has turned it into a partisan instrument of personal revenge and is trying to destroy my presidency. Look at the way he handled health care and the Diaz nomination. It’s a disgrace.”

  “Mr. President, he’s never recovered from losing the presidency.”

  “I understand that. Who can blame him?” said Long. “The convention credentials fight, the Dele-gate scandal, Kaplan’s indictment, the House election. It was tough for everyone. But somebody has to lose. You have to move on.”

  “We don’t move on real well in New Jersey,” said Cartwright jokingly. “We tend not to forget our friends or our enemies.”

  “Look, I bear Sal no ill will,” Long said, not entirely convincingly. “This isn’t personal. It’s about restoring the integrity of the U.S. Senate. Right now it’s being corrupted by Sal. The man has got to go. That’s why you should run. You’ve got name ID; you can raise the money. And you’d win.” He flashed a smile. “I’ll back you 100 percent.”

  Cartwright shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Mr. President, the fact this is coming from you means a lot. I have a tremendous amount of respect for you, I really do.”

  “But?”

  “But I have the temperament of an executive. I like making decisions, not hanging around for roll-call votes until midnight. I’ve got the only job in politics I ever wanted, other than U.S. attorney.”

  Long nodded. “That’s why you’d be perfect,” he said, swatting away the objection. “Look, I’ve been a governor. I get it. A lot of people thought I was nuts when I walked away from the governorship of California to run for president as an independent.” He smiled. “Come to think of it, Jay thought I was nuts.”

  Jay grinned like a Cheshire cat but said nothing.

  “But in the final analysis this isn’t about you or me, Kerry. It’s about the country. You’ll be an impact player the minute you get to the Senate. You’ll be a national figure overnight by defeating Stanley.”

  “I’ll give it full consideration, sir,” said Cartwright noncommitally.

  Long leaned forward until their faces were no more than s
ix inches apart. “Have you ever thought about being attorney general?”

  “Not especially,” replied Cartwright, flustered. He glanced over at Jay nervously as if to say, I thought I was here to get love-bombed for U.S. Senate.

  “I think you’d make a great AG. Or a Supreme Court justice.” He tapped Cartwright on the arm and winked. “The Senate is just the beginning. The sky’s the limit.”

  Cartwright squirmed in his seat, unsure of what to say.

  “Kerry, this race is winnable. The partisan role Sal’s assumed as majority leader is not playing well in New Jersey.” Long turned to Jay. “What are his numbers?”

  “Forty-five fav; forty-five unfav,” said Jay, reading from the legal pad. “His reelect is forty-three; new person is forty-seven.”

  Long arched his eyebrows. “There you go.”

  “My job approval is 68 percent,” said Cartwright.

  “Trust me, we know,” replied Long. Everyone laughed. “Sal’s numbers are only going to get worse once Kaplan goes on trial. The headlines are going to be ugly.”

  “You’re a good salesman, Mr. President,” said Cartwright, swallowing hard. “I like what I hear. I’d like to talk to my wife before I make a decision.”

  “Sure, of course,” said Long with fatherly concern. “I tell candidates they shouldn’t run without the approval of their spouse or their employer. The first time I thought running for president as an independent was possible was when Claire said she thought I should do it.”

  Jay smiled knowingly.

  “I’m honored by your confidence,” replied Cartwright.

  “If you jump in, we’ll put together fund-raisers in California and every major city in the country. We’ve got thirty-two million e-mail addresses and cell phone numbers. They’ll all be at your disposal.”

  Cartwright’s eyes widened. “That would be great!” he exclaimed.

  “Plus our 527 and c4,” offered Jay, the first time he spoke without being spoken to first. “This will be our highest national priority.”

  “All of the above,” said Long. He rose from his chair and guided Cartwright to the door. “I hope you do it, Kerry. You’ll be glad you did.” He shot Jay a wink. Cartwright got the feeling he was not the only U.S. Senate prospect being tag-teamed by Jay and the president. He wondered: if he ran and won, would he be able to get a set of those special presidential cuff links Long gave only to his closest friends? He hoped so.

  FBI SPECIAL AGENT PATRICK MAHONEY stood in the foyer of the redbrick townhouse on M Street and watched the controlled chaos of a crime scene investigation unfold under his watchful eye. Mahoney didn’t look like the typical clean-cut, well put-together FBI guy. He was thick around the middle, a shock of black hair combed above a pale face, with deep blue eyes and beetle eyebrows that darted when he talked. He could pass for a street cop, but appearances were deceiving, for Mahoney was one of the best agents in the Bureau. Which is why when the body in the townhouse turned out to belong to Perry Miller, he got the call.

  Roadblocks were placed a block in either direction, snarling traffic. Bomb squad units with dogs checked every car, checking the undersides of the chassis of each vehicle with mirrors. Ten FBI vehicles and an equal number of DC police squad cars lined the street. A dozen federal agents, including four in protective suits, scoured the building for evidence, removing items in evidence bags. At the end of the block, camera crews and reporters performed live stand-ups beneath television lights. Spectators leaned over the police barricades, craning their necks and gawking, hoping to catch a glimpse of precisely what was hard to determine. The sound of police sirens, honking horns, and barking dogs filled the air.

  Miller’s body was transported to GWU Hospital, where a team of forensic pathologists readied for an autopsy. Police interviewed the owner of the building and identified the renter of the basement apartment as a woman who operated a dominatrix service on the Internet. She had a rap sheet two pages long, including previous arrests for income tax evasion, cocaine possession, and solicitation. A federal judge approved warrants for her phone records, e-mail accounts, and a search of her home and computer hard drive.

  Mahoney ordered a complete review of the phone numbers, e-mail accounts, and credit card transactions of every client. The body language of the higher-ups in the Bureau was not good. What was the point? Miller was dead, and whoever else patronized the service was irrelevant. The suits on the seventh floor didn’t like investigations that veered off the beaten track—they called them “rabbit trails” within the Bureau—especially when it was likely the dominatrix service’s client list would include prominent individuals with expensive lawyers and friends in high places.

  But Mahoney was a grizzled veteran who played by old-school rules. If a U.S. senator was dead in suspicious circumstances, he wanted to know why. He stood with his hands in his pockets, a practiced scowl on his face, occasionally barking a directive. One of the other FBI agents approached.

  “Tell me something I don’t already know,” grunted Mahoney.

  “We found the girl who saw Miller,” said the agent. “DC cops just picked her up.”

  “And?”

  “It’s bizarre,” replied the agent. “She’s the girl next door: Phi Beta Kappa, UCLA undergrad, second year at Georgetown law. Law student by night, dominatrix by day. Grew up in southern California. Apparently she’s been in the business for four years.”

  Mahoney shook his head. “It just doesn’t add up.”

  “You mean golden girl lawyer in training murders prominent senator?”

  Mahoney shrugged. “I don’t know . . . it doesn’t fit.”

  “She’s got an attorney and she’s been Mirandized. So I don’t know how much help she’ll be.”

  “She’ll talk. Either that or she’ll walk the plank on a second-degree murder charge. No amount of daddy’s money will save her from a DC jury.”

  “Her lawyer told police Miller was a regular customer of hers. She claims he was alive when she last saw him.”

  “We’ll know soon enough based on the autopsy whether she’s telling the truth. But parts of this don’t add up,” said Mahoney.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s got bruises all over his body.”

  “So?”

  “Miller’s married. The sex workers don’t leave marks on married clients because at night they go home to their wives.”

  “Maybe she lost control.”

  “Maybe. But she’s a pro. And even if she did kill him, she didn’t have to beat him up. The guy was tied up. All she had to do was choke him to death. And these bruises were made before he died. Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look at this place. It looks like your grandmother lives here. Nothing out of place, nothing stolen or missing, clothes neatly folded, no sign of a struggle, no clothing hurriedly discarded. That’s odd, given how he supposedly died.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I’m saying maybe someone wanted him dead.”

  “Who?”

  “Lots of people. Terrorists, hate groups, Islamic extremists, the mob, any number of people. If someone wanted him dead and they knew he was a client here, they could have killed him and brought his body back here and everyone would assume he died at the hands of someone else.”

  “Like our Girl Scout in leather.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Good luck selling that to a DA. What’s next? Shots fired from a grassy knoll. . . . Lee Harvey Oswald worked for the Russians?”

  “That was LBJ, not the Russians,” said Mahoney with a sly smile. “I’m just asking questions. And so far I’m not finding answers.”

  “DOJ doesn’t like it when there are questions with no answers.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Mahoney walked back out on the front porch and looked down the street. He suspected someone (or something?) far more sinister than a twenty-four-year-old Georgetown law student was behind the death of Perry Miller. But who
? Before Mahoney could pursue his hunch, he needed to convince the suits in the Bureau. To do that, he would need a powerful ally, . . . and he thought he knew where to find one.

  3

  Governor Mike Birch sat on the back terrace of the Governor’s Mansion in Tallahassee sipping black coffee from bone china as he surveyed his fourth newspaper of the day. He spooned granola and strawberries from a bowl and occasionally sucked a soy milk protein shake through a straw. Birch consumed as much protein a day as a body builder. He had the metabolism of a hummingbird and the daily carbohydrate intake of a runway model. He read the Miami Herald, Orlando Sentinel, the St. Petersburg Times, and the New York Times each morning and also scanned news Web sites and political blogs incessantly. He was primarily interested in stories about himself, and today there was no shortage of them. Everyone wanted to know who he would appoint to the Senate seat made vacant by the death of Perry Miller.

  With closely cropped silver hair, a deep tan, and penetrating black eyes, he had the wiry build of a marathon runner. He recently declined Bob Long’s offer to serve on the U.S. Supreme Court, thoroughly embarrassing Long in the process. Birch then supported Diaz—the Hispanic vote was the golden ticket of Florida politics. Widely considered the front-runner for the Republican nomination for president, Birch prepared for a general election contest pitting him against Long and an as-yet-to-be-determined Democratic nominee.

  Which was why he was stunned when a butler appeared holding a phone. “Governor, President Long is on the line.”

  Birch dropped the newspaper and raised his chin, snapping off his reading glasses. “Well, what do you know. I wonder what he’s offering me this time.” The two had not spoken since the icy call in which Birch rejected the Supreme Court appointment. He picked up the receiver.

  “THIS IS MIKE BIRCH.”