LITMIR.BIZ

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and probably answer questions herself, questions for which she had no answers yet.

      Grant Lawrence was sometimes referred to by the media as the next John Kennedy, and Lawrence really did have that magic. Karen, a lifelong Republican, somehow always found herself voting for Grant Lawrence, Democrat. He made sense. But more than making sense, he made the impossible seem possible, made the heart soar with hope that the world could be a better place. Like Kennedy, he never said it would be easy. He admitted to all the obstacles, then made you feel as if surmounting obstacles was the entire point.

      She liked his attitude. And it didn’t hurt that he could give a younger Robert Redford a run for his money in the looks department. Dark hair dashed with gray, perfectly chiseled features, a determined jaw, and a stride that said, you can knock me around but you can’t knock me down.

      And that bundle of talent, looks and potentially huge problems for her was walking her way right now, being passed through the cordon as if he were king. Nobody even asked him to wait.

      This was Lawrence turf, even for the cops.

      It struck her that all she thought she knew about him was public image, and that all her admiration for him wasn’t going to make her job one iota easier. She suddenly wished someone else had been called on this case.

      One of the cops pointed her out to him. Otherwise she was sure he never would have noticed an Irish wren with colorless eyes and her dark hair drawn impatiently back. Karen Sweeney had always been one to blend and never one to stand out.

      But he was looking at her, straight at her, with electric blue eyes, bluer than she ever would have guessed from seeing him on the news and in the paper. He was also thinner than she had thought, and while tall, not quite as tall as he looked on the tube. He looked…not quite as imposing, yet somehow more powerful. Weird. And she needed to focus her sleepy brain before this politician ran roughshod over her and got information she wasn’t supposed to give out. Before she forgot that she was the one who was supposed to be in control of the scene.

      “Senator,” she said simply.

      “Detective,” he answered. Then said nothing, as if waiting for her to fill in the missing pieces.

      This close, she could see the fatigue and sorrow weighing down his features. The raw eyelids and cheekbones. In a moment he was no longer Senator Grant Lawrence, leading political light.

      He was simply a man broken by violence.

      “Jerry Connally told me he called you. I’m very sorry.”

      “Thank you,” he said quietly. “Can I see her?”

      She shook her head. “They’ve taken her away already. I hate to ask this, but I do need to go through the house with you. It looks like she surprised a burglar. Mr. Connally didn’t notice anything missing, but…it’s your house.”

      He simply nodded, and she continued.

      “We can do it later. But it would help the investigation to know as soon as possible. If there was something stolen, finding it might help us find out who did this. A homicide trail goes cold fast.”

      “I understand, Detective.” He glanced around. “Is Jerry here?”

      He wanted the comfort of a familiar face, she could tell. And she couldn’t offer it. “I’m sorry. He went downtown to fill out a statement. Procedure.”

      “Yes. Procedure.” He ran a hand through his hair, momentarily appearing utterly lost. Then he squared his shoulders. “Okay, Detective. Show me my home.”

      3

      Grant Lawrence paused in the doorway and realized his house had become an alien land. It wasn’t just the strangers who were everywhere, the police in their uniforms, the technicians with their cases and clipboards. No, it wasn’t that his house was full of strangers. For Grant Lawrence, a stranger was merely an opportunity to make a friend or an ally, and he met with many new people right here in this house.

      But the house was changed forever. It was no longer his home. It had become the place where Abby had died. It felt different. It smelled different. He stepped into it as if stepping in a mausoleum.

      He had been so shaken by the news of Abby’s and Stacy’s deaths that he hadn’t given much thought to how they had happened. He wasn’t spared the knowledge for long. He turned toward the living room, that large, over-decorated space where he often entertained, the creation of his late wife’s opulent taste, and he saw.

      The sight knocked the wind from him, and he spun away. It wasn’t that he’d never seen bloody horror before. The memory of jagged white bone protruding from his right shin, of bright, hot blood pulsing between his fingers as he grabbed the wound, was still vivid. He knew exactly what he was seeing. But this time it had been Abby, his lifelong second mother. And Stacy, a woman he had once thought he might be in love with.

      Oh, God! He leaned against a wall, hot and cold by turns, pressing his forehead against cool plaster, closing his eyes, trying to banish the image of what he’d just seen.

      A hand touched his arm, a small hand with surprising strength. It gripped him. “Senator?” said the smoky voice of Detective Sweeney. “Do you need to sit?”

      “I’ll be all right.” He had to be all right. As had happened so many times in his life, he had no choice but to be all right.

      He drew a steadying breath, regaining his self-command. A line from one of his father’s favorite poems floated unbidden through his consciousness. If you can meet with triumph and disaster/And treat those two imposters just the same. Rudyard Kipling’s idealized “Man” would have known how to handle this.

      “I’m sorry,” she said. “I should have warned you.”

      He raised his head, pushed himself away from the wall and looked at her. “Why? That would have deprived you of the opportunity to see my initial reaction.”

      He thought she flushed faintly, but if so, it was nearly invisible. “Senator, you were in Washington. You’re not a suspect.”

      He knew better. Jerry had found Abby and Stacy, and had called him before he called the police. This detective didn’t look like the type who would overlook or ignore the obvious possibility of complicity.

      He had to be careful not to mention Stacy, at least until he knew what the hell Jerry had done. He wasn’t going to betray his friend over something that was relatively unimportant. If it was unimportant.

      He shook himself. He would have to deal with Jerry later. That would be then. This was now. “How did it happen?”

      “Her throat was cut.”

      “My God!” He closed his eyes for a moment, absorbing the enormity, trying not to think of Abby’s last few moments. Abby. Far more important to him than Stacy in so many ways. But both were dead. Both.

      “Look,” said Detective Sweeney, “you don’t have to go into that room. It’s obvious the valuables in there weren’t taken. But I need to know about the rest of the house.”

      He nodded, clamping down on the horror he felt. “Fine, let’s go.” He would have time later for feelings. He’d learned that long ago. There were a lot of things better put on hold until he had privacy to think about them and feel them. Otherwise, it was as his mother had once said: if there’s one other person who can see you, you’re on camera.

      Why hadn’t Jerry warned him about what he would see?

      The rest of the first floor was undisturbed. The farther he got from his living room, the more he could almost lull himself into thinking everything was normal. Until he reached his office. A file drawer, almost but not quite closed, a discrepancy that most people might not have even noticed, alerted him.

      “Detective, those cabinets were locked.”

      “Mr. Connally said he came for some papers.”

      He looked

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