Ballots and Blood Page 3

  “Mike, Bob Long,” said the president.

  “Mr. President, good to hear from you. To what do I owe this honor?”

  “The honor’s all mine, Mike,” said Long smoothly. “I only wish the circumstances were better. I’m referring of course to Perry Miller dying.”

  “Everyone’s in shock down here, Mr. President,” said Birch. “Not just by the suddenness of his death but by the circumstances. I’m still trying to wrap my mind around it. The guy was a Boy Scout.”

  “I know,” said Long, tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. “He was leading the charge on the Iran sanctions bill, which may be our last chance to avoid a military conflict with Iran. I don’t know who can fill Perry’s shoes.”

  An awkward silence ensued, which Birch declined to fill. Long continued: “As with me when Peter Corbin Franklin died, you’ve got a big decision to make, my friend. I don’t envy you.”

  “Yes, I do. Of course in the case of Franklin, the House started the process of replacing him before he was even gone,” said Birch, twisting the knife, alluding to Speaker Gerry Jimmerson and the right-wing Republicans trying to impeach Franklin while he lay in a coma. It was a wicked shot—and a reminder of why Birch rejected Long’s offer.

  “Yes, well, emotions run high in the House, I’m afraid,” demurred Long, refusing to be drawn into rehashing the past. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I’m thinking of you as you mull it over. If there’s anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as discussing possible replacements—off the record.”

  “I appreciate the offer,” said Birch in a hollow voice. “But in general I’ve found it’s best to keep one’s own counsel. Too many people talk. No offense intended.”

  “None taken. Are you thinking of appointing a placeholder or someone who will run next November?”

  “I haven’t thought about it. To be honest, I’m still absorbing the news,” lied Birch. He thought to himself: Long is shameless! He didn’t even wait for the body to get cold. “My plan is to appoint the best person and let him or her decide. At the end of the day, if I’m able to appoint a real strong person, it would be best if they ran and got elected because they’d carry their seniority into the new Congress. That would be good for Florida.”

  “Mmmm-mmmm,” said Long. “Speaking of what’s best for Florida, why not appoint yourself? I can’t think of anyone who could do a better job than you.”

  Birch was floored. “I haven’t really thought about it,” he said curtly.

  “You should. You’ve got the two vital qualities needed in the Senate. You’re capable, and you won’t caucus with Sal Stanley.” He let out a wicked laugh.

  “Well, if I were going to appoint myself, I sure wouldn’t tell you,” said Birch, chuckling.

  Long laughed, shaking off the insult. “Well, I don’t care who you appoint as long as it’s a Republican. One less vote in Stanley’s back pocket will be good for America. I think there’s a chance the Democrats will lose control of the Senate. If they do, you’ll be a hero.”

  “My concern is not to be a hero,” Birch replied with false modesty. “My only concern is appointing the right person. And I will look at Democrats as well as Republicans, especially given the fact the voters of Florida elected a Democrat to the seat.” He could almost feel Long recoiling over the phone line.

  “I see your predicament,” said Long abruptly. “I’m sure you’ll do the right thing. Just wanted to check in with you. Good luck.” He couldn’t get off the phone fast enough.

  “Thank you, Mr. President.”

  Birch hung up the phone and shook his head in wonder. Did Long really want him to appoint himself, thinking it might weaken him in the presidential race? Or was he just playing head games?

  He picked up the phone again and quickly dialed the cell phone of Nick Furhman, his chief political advisor and sounding board on all things.

  “Good morning, Governor,” said Furhman, who was on his way to the office.

  “Guess who just called me about the Senate seat?”

  “Let me guess . . . Don Jefferson,” said Furhman in a drawl laced with contempt. Jefferson was a famously ambitious wingnut from central Florida. It was an inside joke that Birch wouldn’t appoint him if he was the last man alive.

  “Nope. It wasn’t Don, though I’m sure he’ll be calling both of us soon.”

  “Okay, I give up. Who?”

  “Bob Long.”

  “What?! Who’s staffing his calls?”

  “Apparently no one! It was one of the most awkward conversations I’ve had in my life. He was on his knees begging me to take his advice on the appointment.”

  “He’s wetting his pants at the thought you might appoint a Democrat.”

  “Oh, it’s better than that. He suggested I appoint myself.”

  Furhman burst out laughing. “Fat chance.”

  “I’d be committing political suicide. Which is why he urged me to do it.”

  “The guy’s infatuated with you.” Furhman was getting worked up. “What did you tell him? I hope nothing.”

  Birch chuckled. “Not a thing. I was very careful.”

  “I wonder: should we leak this? This is highly inappropriate, almost icky. I think people should know he tried to influence who you appointed before Miller had a decent burial.”

  Birch paused. “Let me think on it. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t mind burning him. I just don’t want to get burned at the same time, you get my drift?”

  “Yes, I get it. But I can feed this to Marvin Myers, and he’ll be my lap dog for six months,” laughed Furhman. “I can’t wait until you announce the appointment. In a sense it’ll be the first shot fired in the presidential campaign.”

  Birch hung up, turning it all over in his mind. Bob Long begging him to appoint himself was beyond comical. In truth Birch loved the attention, thrived on it, needed it like most people needed oxygen. To keep everyone talking about him, he intended to drag it out a bit. Yes, Birch thought, he would take his sweet time.

  IN A CRAMPED, WINDOWLESS INTERVIEW room painted a bland, putrid green on the sixth floor of the industrial-looking, antiseptic Metropolitan police headquarters building on Indiana Avenue, a visibly frightened Amber Abica fidgeted in a metal-backed chair. She hardly fit the profile of a murder suspect. Demure and striking, with soft, jet-black hair that fell to her shoulders, she wore black pants, towering heels, and a clinging top. Her curvaceous figure proved irresistible to the police officers. A slash of ruby-red lipstick highlighted luscious, full lips, creamy white skin and sparkling blue eyes. Also present were her attorney, Patrick Mahoney from the FBI, Metropolitan police detective Paul Browne, and an attorney from the district attorney’s office.

  “Alright, just to dispense with formalities prior to conducting today’s interview,” said Browne, “Ms. Abica is here voluntarily and has been informed of her Miranda rights. She is not here under coercion and has not been tendered any offer with respect to any subsequent charges in exchange for her appearing here today. Correct?”

  “Correct,” said Abica’s attorney.

  “Alright, Ms. Abica, please tell us your current legal residence.”

  “417 Eight Street, NE, the District of Columbia.”

  “How long have you lived there?”

  “A year and half.”

  “And your current occupation?”

  “I’m a law student at Georgetown University, in the night school program, in my third year. I also work at Adult Alternatives.”

  “How long have you been in that occupation?”

  “Four years.”

  “How did you first come into that kind of work?”

  “I had a roommate who had a friend who advertised her services on the Internet. One night she came over to the apartment, and we talked. I asked her if the money was good. She said it was. She referred me to Adult Alternatives.”

  “You went there for an interview?”


  “Yes.”

  “And you were hired.”

  “Correct.”

  “How many clients do you have?”

  “Hundreds. But my regulars are about thirty.” She seemed to bristle with pride. “I’m one of the more popular girls.”

  “How long had Senator Miller been your client?”

  “I think the first time I had a session with him was last April. So roughly fifteen months.”

  “How did he first contact you?”

  “Through the Web site.”

  The attorney from the DA’s office made a note on her legal pad.

  “Did he say what he wanted in terms of your services?”

  “Role-playing, mostly. You know, playing nurse and schoolteacher. Sometimes we would reverse roles. He had me dress up like one of his staff members, and he would spank me.” She paused as the men’s eyes widened. “Over time he got more into bondage and domination. He became more willing to take risks and be adventurous. He was comfortable with me.”

  “Did he ever say why he wanted to avail himself of your services?”

  She shrugged. “Men with as much power as he had like being powerless. When he was with me, he was my submissive, and I was completely in charge. It was a rush for him.”

  “I see,” deadpanned Browne. “How much did he pay per session? Was it an hourly charge? Was there a set rate?”

  “Five hundred dollars for an hour session. I kept half, the rest went to the service. He was a good tipper. He usually gave me a $250 tip, sometimes more.”

  “How did he pay?”

  “Cash. Always cash. That’s how most of them paid.”

  “Did you and Senator Miller ever have intimate relations?”

  “You mean did we have sex?”

  “Yes.”

  Abica turned to her attorney. He nodded. “No,” she said firmly. “It wasn’t about sex. It was about power.”

  The attorney from the DA’s office and Browne made eye contact, seemingly unconvinced. “How often did you see him?” asked Browne.

  “Two or three times a month. Less when Congress was out of session.”

  “Did you know who he was?”

  “Not at first. But a few months after he started coming in, I saw him on television.”

  “Did you tell him you saw him on TV and knew who he was?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever express concern his relationship with you would become known?”

  “No. He knew he could trust me to be discreet. And I was . . . until this happened. He was hardly the only well-known man I’ve had as client. I’ve had a lot of them.”

  “But none more so than him?” asked Browne. “Was he the most prominent client you had?”

  Amber pursed her lips. “Perhaps.” She turned to her attorney. “I don’t have to get specific about members of Congress or the administration, do I?”

  “I don’t think so,” said her attorney, leveling his gaze at Browne. “That hasn’t come up in our discussions in preparing for this interview.”

  “Not at this time,” answered Mahoney. “Right now we’re interested in your relationship with Senator Miller.”

  “How physical were these sessions? Did you inflict pain?” asked Browne.

  “Yes. He wanted that more and more. But I never hurt him.” She looked directly into Browne’s eyes. “I never hurt one of my clients, and I never would.”

  “Tell us what happened this past Wednesday.”

  “He came for a previously scheduled session. He changed. We role-played. I put him in restraints. . . . He liked that. I did the usual stuff.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  Abica dropped her eyes. “I whipped him. I spanked him. After the session was over, I cleaned up, and he went into the dressing room to change back into his suit. I left because I was meeting a friend for a drink. That’s the last time I saw him.”

  “Was it normal for you to leave the apartment before a client departed?”

  “No. But he was a longtime client, he knew how to let himself out, and I was running late.”

  Mahoney leaned forward. “One question: did you and Senator Miller ever play asphyxiation games in which he was temporarily deprived of oxygen?”

  “No. We did plenty of other stuff but not that.”

  “Did you ever play asphyxiation games with other clients?”

  Abica lowered her eyes, averting Mahoney’s penetrating gaze. “Yes.”

  “How often?”

  “Not a lot. Maybe a half dozen times. It’s not my thing really. But if a client wanted it done, I did it.” Her eyes teared up. “I did a lot of things that made me sick. I could tell you things that would make you want to throw up. It’s not glamorous work, you know.”

  Browne resumed his line of questioning. “So the last time you saw Senator Miller, he was doing exactly what?”

  “He was stepping into the changing room and I told him he could let himself out when he was done. I knew there were no more sessions scheduled at that location for the rest of the day. So I went up the stairs and left the townhouse.”

  “Do you remember what time that was?”

  “It was twenty after six. I was meeting my friend for a drink at 6:30 p.m. I was worried I’d be late, which is why I remember.”

  “As you left the building, did you encounter anyone who could place you there at that time?” asked Browne. “A street vendor, a parking garage attendant, someone like that?”

  “No,” said Amber morosely. “I didn’t drive so there’s no parking garage. I took the Metro.”

  The prosecutor made more notes. “Metro security cameras might have captured her going through the turnstiles,” said Abica’s attorney helpfully.

  “Don’t worry,” said Browne dismissively. “We know how to conduct investigations. Just make sure your client answers the questions honestly.” He turned back to Abica. “Did you see anything or anyone out of the ordinary as you left the townhouse?”

  “Like what?”

  “Someone who might have been following Senator Miller or you.”

  “Not that I noticed.”

  “What was the name of the person you met for drinks?” asked the prosecutor.

  “Daniel Blatt. He’s a friend from law school.”

  “We’ll want his contact information.”

  “Of course,” said Abica’s attorney. “We can get you that.”

  “Alright, let’s take a brief break. Ms. Abica, you’re welcome to use the restroom or grab something to drink if you want,” said Browne. “We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  They left the room and walked down the hall in a single file to Browne’s office. Closing the door behind them, Browne slumped in the chair behind his desk, rubbing his chin. The prosecutor stood in the corner, arms crossed, tapping the toe of her high heel on the linoleum tile. Mahoney sprawled out in a chair, studying his fingernails.

  “What do you guys think?” asked Browne.

  “Her fingerprints are all over the restraints, and she left marks on the body. There’s no question she asphyxiated Miller,” said the prosecutor. “The physical evidence is damning. I think we can get a second-degree murder conviction based on that alone.”

  Browne nodded. “I agree. She’s got no one who can verify she wasn’t there at the time of death other than this friend, who could be lying. Her alibi has holes in it big enough to drive a Mack truck through.”

  Mahoney rose in his chair. “If she was gonna kill him, why do it at the regular time of his appointment and leave fingerprints everywhere? And why not at least try to dispose of the evidence? She’s a third-year law student. . . . She’s taken criminal procedure.”

  “Maybe she skipped those classes,” joked the prosecutor.

  “You mean like you did?” chuckled Browne.

  “She didn’t act like someone trying to get away with murder,” said Mahoney. “She left the building, met a friend for drinks, and went about her business. I think she’s telling the tru
th: he was alive when she left the townhouse.”

  “That may be true, but the physical evidence is incontrovertible,” said the prosecutor.

  “Where’s the motive?” asked Mahoney, throwing up his hands.

  “Who knows, maybe she snapped,” said Browne. “You heard what she said: the clients made her do disgusting things that made her sick to her stomach. Maybe that included Miller. Maybe he pushed her button one time too many, and she lost it.”

  “She’s hiding something,” said the prosecutor.

  “Like what?” asked Mahoney.

  “For starters, she didn’t take the Metro because there’s not a station in Georgetown. If she’s lying about how she left the townhouse, she’s lying about other things, too.”

  The three sat in silence for a moment. “So what do you think . . . should we go ahead and arrest her for murder?” asked Browne.

  “No. Not yet,” said the prosecutor. “If we do, we’ve got to present charges within twenty-four hours. She’s not a flight risk. She’s talking. We’re still gathering evidence. Let her go.”

  “I’m good with that,” said Browne. “Let’s go back in there and see what else we can get out of her. She may hang herself yet.”

  They walked back to the conference room. But something kept nagging at Mahoney, and it wasn’t just the fact no one could explain why a professional like Abica would leave marks all over Miller’s body that directly implicated her. It was also that Miller was supposed to be the floor manager of the Iran sanctions bill the next week, with war drums beating in the Middle East. Suddenly he turned up dead. Mahoney thought the timing suspicious. He wondered if the same Iranian-funded terrorists who assassinated Vice President Harrison Flaherty in the previous campaign exchanged shoulder-fired missiles for whips and chains. He was going to find out, and he wasn’t going to let a bunch of bureaucrats in the DC police department or the Justice Department get in the way.

  4

  Two thousand mourners packed into First Baptist of Jacksonville for Perry Miller’s funeral, which resembled that of a head of state. The political establishment of Florida filled the pews, joined by three dozen members of the U.S. Senate, as well as numerous foreign dignitaries and members of the diplomatic corps. Three former secretaries of state sat on the front pew, including David Petty, the Republican presidential nominee who lost to Bob Long. With Sal Stanley in attendance, both men Long defeated were there to honor Miller’s memory. Long was represented by Vice President Johnny Whitehead, Secretary of State Candace Sanders, and National Security Advisor Truman Greenglass.