—
KITTEN CARTER arrived at the hospital. She’d been on her cell phone for three hours by the time she got there. The first news of the accident would be leaked to reporters who owed her favors and who would put the most sympathetic spin to the night’s events.
“. . . good friends and political allies who’d gone to the cabin to plot strategy for the summer clashes over the health care proposals . . .”
* * *
—
THE LOCAL DEPUTIES turned the crash investigation over to the West Virginia State Police. The second day after the accident, an investigator interviewed Smalls, in his Senate office, with Carter sitting in. Smalls, with two black eyes and a broad white bandage over his nose, and dressed in a blue-striped seersucker suit with a navy blue knit tie, immediately understood that something was wrong.
The investigator’s name was Carl Armstrong. When he’d finished with his questions, Smalls said, “Don’t bullshit me, Carl. Something’s not right. You think I’m lying about something. What is it?”
The investigator had been taking notes on a legal pad inside a leather portfolio. He sighed, closed the portfolio, and said, “Our lab has been over your vehicle inch by inch, sir. There’s no sign that it was ever hit by another truck.”
Carter was sitting in a wingback chair, illegally smoking a small brown cigarillo. She looked at Smalls, then frowned at Armstrong and said, “That’s wrong. The other guys took them right off the road—smashed them off. What do you mean, there’s no sign?”
Smalls jumped in. “That’s exactly right. The impact caved the door in . . . there’s gotta be some sign of that. I mean, I was in a fairly bad accident once, years ago, and both vehicles had extensive damage. This one was worse. The hit was worse. What do you mean, no sign?”
“No metal scrapes, no paint, no glancing blow. The only thing we’ve found are signs that you hit several trees on both sides of the truck and the front grille and hood,” Armstrong said.
“Then you’re not looking hard enough,” Smalls snapped. “That guy crashed right into us and killed CeeCee, and damn near killed me.”
Armstrong looked away and shrugged. “Uh, well, I wonder if he actually hit you or maybe just caused Miz Whitehead to lose control?”
“She hadn’t been drinking . . .”
Armstrong held up a hand. “We know that. She had zero alcohol in her blood, and we know she was driving because the blood on that side of the cab and on the air bag matches hers. We don’t doubt anything you’ve told us, except the impact itself.”
Carter: “Senator Smalls has provided a written statement in which he relates the force of the impact.”
“There’s a low gravel berm where they went over the side—we’re wondering if Miz Whitehead might have hit that hard, and the senator might be mistaking that for the impact of the truck.”
Smalls was already shaking his head. “No. I heard the truck hit. I saw it hit—I was looking out the driver’s-side window when it hit.”
“There’s no paint from another car, no metal, no glass on the road . . . no nothing,” Armstrong repeated.
Carter said to Smalls, “Senator, maybe we need to get some FBI crime scene people up there . . .”
Smalls put a finger on his lips, to shut her up. He stood, and said, “Carl, I’m going to ask another guy to talk to you about the evidence, if you don’t mind. Kitten and I don’t know about such things, but I think it’d be a good idea if we put a second pair of eyes on this whole deal.”
Armstrong had dealt with politicians a number of times, and Smalls seemed to him to be one of the more reasonable members of the species. No shouting, no accusations. He flushed with relief, and said, “Senator . . . anything we can do, we’ll be happy to do. We’d like to understand what happened here. Send your guy around anytime. We’ll probably give him more cooperation than he’ll even want.”
“That’s great,” Smalls said, extending a hand. “I’ll drop a note to your superintendent, thanking him for your work.”
“Appreciate that,” Armstrong said, as they shook. “I really do, sir.”
* * *
—
WHEN ARMSTRONG HAD GONE, Carter asked, “Why were you pouring butter on him? He didn’t believe you. I mean, Jesus, somebody killed CeeCee and almost killed you. If you let this stand, the whole thing is gonna get buried—”
“No, no, no . . .” Smalls was on his feet. He touched his nose, picked up the tube of pain pills, shook it like a maraca, put it back down; not many left, and he’d already taken one that morning. His nose was still burning like fire from the chemical cautery. The doc had been right about needing the pills, not for the mechanical damage but for the cauterized tissue. He wandered over to his trophy wall, filled with plaques and keys to Minnesota cities and photos of himself with presidents, governors, other senators, assorted rich people, including Whitehead, and politically conservative movie stars.
Thinking about it.
Carter kept her mouth shut, and after a while Smalls, playing with an earlobe and gazing at his pictures, said, “I’m surprised by . . . what Armstrong said. No evidence. But I’m not really astonished. Remember when I told you the first thing I did was get my gun because I thought the guys who hit us might be paid killers? Assassins? Professionals?”
“Yeah, but I don’t . . .”
“I was right. They were,” Smalls said. “I don’t know how they did this, but I’m sure that if the right investigator looked under the right rock, he could find someone who could explain it. We need to get that done, because . . .”
“They could be coming back for another shot at you,” Carter finished.
“Yeah. Probably not right away, but sooner or later.” Smalls left the trophy wall, walked to his oversized desk, pushed a button on an intercom. “Sally . . . get Lucas Davenport on the line. His number’s on your contact list.”
“That’s the guy . . .” Carter began.
“Yeah,” Smalls said. “That’s the guy.”
2
Lucas Davenport and Charlie Knight walked out of the Sedgwick County Regional Forensic Science Center into the bright Kansas sunshine, and Lucas took his sunglasses from his jacket pocket, slipped them on his nose, and said, “Move on. Nothing to see here.”
“Could be worse,” Knight said. He put on his own sunglasses. They were silvered and made him look like a movie version of a Texas highway patrolman, which he probably knew. His teeth, which didn’t quite match—the two upper central incisors were white, the others various shades of yellow—made him look even more like a Texas cop. “The sonofabitch might’ve lived.”
That made Lucas smile, and he said, “He wasn’t as bad as his boss.”
“Maybe not, but it’d be a goddamn close call.” They’d been to look at the bullet-riddled body of a man named Molina.
“You want to write this up?” Lucas asked, as they walked out to the rental car.
“Yeah, I’ll do it tonight,” Knight said. “You’ll be rolled up with your old lady by the time I get finished.” Lucas’s plane was going out that evening, Knight’s not until the next morning.
“What about Wise?” Lucas asked.
“Fuck him. Let Wichita put him away,” Knight said. “I don’t know for sure, but I suspect the Kansas state pen ain’t a leading garden spot.”
“I suspect you’re right about that,” Lucas said. “So, you thinking steak or cheeseburger?”
“Anything with beef in it that’s not Mexican,” Knight said.
“Yeah? Mexican’s one of my favorites,” Lucas said.
“I’m married to a Mexican, and we got gourmet Mexicano right there in the kitchen, so I ain’t eating Mexican in Wichita. I’d like to get around a big bloody T-bone.”
“You can do that in Wichita,” Lucas said. “Did I ever tell you about the time I danced with a professional assassin in Wichita? No? Her name was Clara Rinker . . .”
* * *
—