One Hot Mess Part 25

"The three deaths," I said.

He shook his head. "Carma died months ago."

"Two," I said. "Two months."

He scowled, nodded, took a sip of his wine, and swirled it gently, seeming lost in his thoughts.

"Can you think of anything that might have changed around that time?" I asked.

He shook his head, swirled some more. "I am an old man, Christina," he said, and smiled, intelligent, serene, and gently self-reproachful. "Little changes in my life."

I refrained from snorting. "What of Salina?" I considered adding "the gorgeous Latino woman who was half your age," but I thought it might sound a little uncharitable.

"My fiancee was killed by a madman whom I once counted as a friend," he said, and paused. "The world will never be the same without her."

I watched him. His eyes were mournful, his expression solemn, but he turned his lips up in a grim smile. "Perhaps I am not as coldhearted as you think."

Perhaps. But what did I know of him, really? His own son seemed to think him capable of murder.

"I loved her," he said. "Maybe it was an unusual love, a love that you neither understand nor condone-"

I opened my mouth to object, but he lifted an elegant hand to stop me. Which was just as well, because I didn't condone his multigenerational philandering and I had no desire to admit it.

"But it was love just the same," he said.

"She was half your age." Okay, now I said it.

"Is age what determines affection?"

I considered debating the issue, but I was pretty sure I had come for a reason. I s.h.i.+fted, restless. He reminded me of his son in too many ways for comfort.

"Tell me about Manny Casero," I said.

He drank again. "What do you wish to know?"

"Everything."

"I have not seen him for some years."

"Then tell me a little."

He sighed, settled back. "His name was Emanuel. But he liked to be called 'My Lord.'"

I started in surprise. "What?"

He smiled at my shocked expression. "He was christened Emanuel. Someone mentioned the true meaning of the name-G.o.d with us." He shrugged, a casual lift of impressive shoulders. "Manny had a position of some power amongst my staff. He suggested his... underlings, if you will, could simply call him Lord and Master."

I mulled over the thought, trying to see the scenario in my mind. As a general rule, people don't like to be subjugated. Americans are particularly touchy. "Perhaps that would have been reason enough to make someone want to kill him," I suggested.

But the senator smiled. "Manny was not a man with whom one could be angry. No. He was amusing. He was charismatic. I believe, in fact, that women found him quite attractive."

"Women often find alcoholics attractive," I said, voicing an opinion that had mystified me for some time.

"He was fond of drink. That I will admit. But it was not a problem. At least not at that time."

"Maybe it was his G.o.d complex that caused the trouble, then."

He smiled as if I understood so little-about men, about women, about life in general. I could hardly disagree. Even Francois baffled me sometimes. "It is not as you think. He was excellent for morale. Enthusiastic. Optimistic. There was not a person on my staff who did not like him."

"How refres.h.i.+ng," I said. "A Utopia." Maybe I'm becoming jaded.

"It was a well-run campaign."

"Uh-huh."

He sighed. "There were, of course, conflicts from time to time. Some of which..." He glanced sorrowfully into his winegla.s.s. "Some of which were my fault."

I remembered the scandals about interns and secretaries. And anyone else with the appropriate s.e.x organs. "Such as?"

"It is not easy being the leader of the Moral Majority."

I almost spewed water through my nose, but I hadn't done that since my brother Pete had blasted my brother James in the face with a blob of applesauce, and I didn't want to ruin my record. Maturity is a slippery thing for a McMullen.

"And a senatorial campaign incurs a great deal of costs," he added.

I nodded, trying to look naive and a little blond. It wasn't very difficult.

"Some of my supporters..." He paused, searching for the perfect word. "... disagreed with my fund-raising methods."

My blond little ears perked up. "Such as?"

"Perhaps you have heard of a Mr. Craig R. LaCrosse."

The name rang a vague bell that seemed to be attached somehow to the entertainment industry. I thought back through a half dozen actors' events I had attended with Laney before she'd become an Amazon Queen. "Isn't he a director?" I thought I remembered some slasher flicks.

"A producer." The senator sighed. "A patriotic man. And quite pa.s.sionate about his beliefs. He gave rather generously to my early campaign, but there were those who did not want to become involved with Hollywood. The surrounding immorality would not sit well with my const.i.tuency or so they thought."

"And you think this guy could somehow be involved with the deaths of-"

"Mr. LaCrosse died some years ago," he said. "I simply wished to dispel your misconception that I believed my campaign was trouble free."

I ran that information around in my head for a minute while I sipped at my water. It was still fizzy I don't like fizzy "What other problems existed amongst your people?" I was vaguely aware that my terminology made him sound a little like Moses.

He placed a hand on the horizontal length of his lower leg and watched me. "There were those who did not think we should campaign on Sunday."

"Seriously?"

"You were raised Catholic, were you not, Christina?"

I was raised stupid. "Even for a Catholic the idea's a little outdated, isn't it?" I asked.

"This was some time ago, Christina. Before the prevalence of laptops and Blueberries and iPods."

I didn't have any of those things. I wanted them, but not as much as I wanted a working commode.

"It was a slower time." He smiled. "There were different sensibilities, and much of my staff was quite devout."

"But you did campaign on Sundays?"

"A man must take a stand, and I have found it impossible to please everyone. I felt it more important to spread the wisdom of our policies than to worry about offending a few const.i.tuents."

Translation: He wanted to win.

"Who was against the Sunday idea?"

He shook his head. "I no longer remember the details. It was a small ripple in a large pond."

"Who was for it?"

He stared at me for a moment, and then his brows lowered. "Kathy Baltimore."

I felt my heart rate b.u.mp up.

"She was a very ambitious woman. When she threw herself into a project, she threw with all her heart. Perhaps that is why she stayed with her husband so long, even though..." He shook his head, looking surprised and a little disturbed.

My mind skittered on.

"You said Emanuel was attractive."

He smiled. "I said women found him attractive. There is a distinct difference, to my mind."

"Do you have a photo of him?"

"Of Emanuel? Yes, I believe I might," he said, and left the room. He returned shortly, carrying a stack of leather-bound photo alb.u.ms. Me, I keep my pictures in a shoe box from Wal-Mart. Sometimes I cut myself out of the image if things have gone awry with my hair or my face or my body weight. There aren't a whole lot of unscathed pictures in the ol' Wal-Mart box.

Sitting down beside me, the senator opened a book and flipped through a few pages.

"What about Kathy?" I asked. "Did she find Emanuel attractive?"

He glanced over at me. Up close, one was more aware of his age, but it did little to make him less appealing. I truly resent that about men. Maybe even more so than the fact that chocolate makes my a.s.s as wide as a dump truck. "I do not believe they knew each other.

"And as I have said, Christina, my staff was extremely moral."

"Who was not?" I asked.

He shook his head like a quiet sage, then tapped a photo imprisoned in plastic.

"This is Emanuel."

I glanced down. The man in the picture was dark. He wore a heavy mustache and no beard. I wouldn't have said he was handsome, but I could see that he had a smile that could make things happen. He was framing a Vote for change, vote for Rivera sign.

"How about him?" I touched the picture. It was fading a little. "Was he moral?" I asked. "Except for the drinking?"

He shrugged. "Perhaps he felt himself a bit overly important."

"Were those his worst sins?"

"So far as I know."

"There must have been someone with worse."

He caught my gaze with grave sincerity. "Then I would have to choose myself as the greatest sinner, for I cannot throw stones."

Save me from martyrs and vegans. "What did you do?" I asked.

He raised his free hand. "Life in politics hides few secrets."

"What few did yours hide?" Good G.o.d, I'm clever.

He paused, then turned a few pages and gazed nostalgically at a faded 46.

I glanced down, recognizing his ex-wife. Rosita Rivera was small, curvaceous, and impishly lovely. Smiling, she had wrapped her arms around a young couple, one on her right and one on her left.

The senators expression was solemn. "I see now, through wiser eyes, that she deserved better."

I didn't bother to agree. To say the senator was a philanderer would have been something of an insult to philanderers. "Who's she with?"

"Volunteer coordinators."

I took a closer look. The woman was plump and cute, with big eyes and a bigger smile. The man was lean and wiry, with brown hair that curled like a fresh perm.

"What's her name?" I asked.

"Yvonne." He said the name with a pensive dreaminess.

I glanced up at the tone, but it took him a moment to meet my high-browed gaze.

"And, no," he said finally, "I did not sleep with her."

"Did you try?"

He looked peeved. "She and Steve were something of an item at the time."

"Steve who?"

He pointed to the picture of the sandy-haired fellow. "Steve Bunting."

"Did they marry?"