At Any Cost Pt. 1

At Any Cost

By
Michael N. Foley












Prologue


NELSON Hemming needed a smoke. His daughter, his beautiful little girl, Alice, was dying. Two days ago, she had been diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. Treatment for the cancer was far beyond his means. He made a vow to himself to find a way to ensure her survival, her happiness. But it seemed like such a daunting task. Nelson had always thought that leukemia was something only for the wealthiest one percent of the population.
And now, here he was, hitchhiking east on Jefferson Street, his used red Ford Taurus that he traded his BMW away for sitting idly, broken down, on South 2nd Street. It seemed he was out of luck.
And then, out of nowhere, all of that seemed to change.
A black Lincoln sedan slowed to a stop. Nelson opened the passenger door. Behind the wheel was a man in his late thirties, black hair, medium build, around six feet. He wasn’t particularly striking. “Need a ride?” the man asked, as if he didn’t know the answer. Nelson heard Taylor Swift’s “You Belong With Me” playing softly on the car radio.
“Yeah, thanks,” Nelson said as he climbed in. “Enterprise Street, please.”
“No problem. Mind if I take a short cut?”
“Not at all.”
The sedan swerved off the highway and on to East Washington Street, south of the intended destination. The man pressed on the gas, hard.
“I’m Anthony, by the way,” the driver said casually.
“Well, Anthony, I think you’re going the wrong way,” he intended this to sound more respectful than it did.
Anthony smiled at him. “I know who you are. And I know the situation you’re in. And I know how stupidly you’re acting, too.”
“Excuse me?” he had never seen this man in his life.
“You’d rather pick up every penny you see to save little Alice than do the obvious thing.”
“And what would that be?”
Anthony laughed at this inquiry, evidently a foolish one by his standards. He divulged his knowledge to Nelson.














Chapter One





SENATOR Daniel Aston strode into the office level of his large campaign headquarters. The desks were littered with Starbucks cups, once filled with the various workers’ preferred caffeinated beverage, now very nearly empty. Daniel glanced around the room. There was no sign of Nelson.
Nelson Hemming was a good friend, and Daniel’s closest advisor on the campaign trail. He checkedhis Bulova watch. 9:17. It was not like Nelson to be late. Daniel wondered if anyone else noticed the absence.
With a little trouble, he pushed Nelson out of his mind. He sat at his own desk, booted up his computer, logged in, and launched onto the World Wide Web. He found the political analysis page under his Favorites toolbar. His opponent in this Senatorial race was Arthur Holcomb.
Until recently, Daniel was keeping a comfortable margin between himself and Holcomb. But, a small clip of Aston delivering a speech in his alderman days taken completely out of context allowed Holcomb to question the senator’s mental stability. The gap was closing fast.
The polls now showed a virtual tie, giving Daniel a mere two percent lead over Holcomb. There was still plenty of time for the tide to shift completely in Holcomb’s favor, or Daniel could gain complete control once again.
“We’re on Channel Twenty,” Jeff Monroe, one of the media monitors, called out. Everyone rolled their chairs around the television tuned in to WICS ABC 20.
The caption read, “Battle Behind the Scenes.” Anchorwoman Jeanne Patterson was saying, “Advisor to district attorney Arthur Holcomb, Joe Darby, has reportedly stated that Senator Aston’s friend and campaign worker Nelson Hemming should ‘watch his back.’ This comes seven days after Hemming made a public statement, singling Darby out at one point.”
They were now staring at Nelson on the television, standing just outside the very building they were in now, delivering his speech. “And as for the people like Joe Darby,” he was saying, “your cutthroat politics have no place here in the United States of America, nor any other decent civilization on God’s green Earth.”
Darby could be Holcomb’s downfall. Telling a man to watch his back is never wise when managing a campaign for public office.
That was what Daniel was thinking. It had not even crossed his mind that Joe Darby could have meant what he said. He sipped his coffee and conversed with his workers on how best to play this out as quickly as possible.











Chapter Two


WHEN Detective Mark Harris arrived at Lincoln Greens Golf Course in his blue Chevrolet Silverado, which he was two payments behind on, there were already two squad cars, four unmarked vehicles, a dark green Honda Element with a yellow decal indicating that it belonged to a Springfield Parks ranger, and the coroner’s van in the parking lot. Staff and visitors were likely all gone, save for the young woman who discovered the body.
Mark recognized a brand new, white Lincoln Navigator as that of Edward Derrick’s, his longtime partner. As he stepped out of the car, he regretted wearing the DKNY overcoat. Springfield’s October breeze was quite cool, but his black cashmere argyle sweater provided sufficient warmth. He moved briskly toward the beach, flashing his ID and shield to the police sergeant standing guard at the front of the greens on his way.
After ducking past the yellow tape that surrounded the beach, he approached Edward, who was waiting for his turn at an interview with the girl. Two detectives were shadowing the coroner as he made his preliminary determinations. “Why all the commotion, Eddie?”
“You mean you haven’t heard?” Edward, who hated the lack of professionalism in the name Eddie, replied with raised eyebrows. “The victim. It’s Senator Aston’s campaign manager.”
The news hit Mark like a brick. This was a high profile case. One that makes or breaks a career. Mark thought of the penthouse suite that he had dreamed of for so long. This case could help him get there. And he arrived late. It was a sickening realization.
Finally, Detective Clark concluded his interview. Mark and Edward darted to the girl before anyone else had a chance.
“Hi,” Mark began gently. “I’m Detective Harris, and this is my partner, Detective Derrick. What’s your name?
“Olivia,” she said as tears rolled down her cheeks. “Olivia Fugate.”
“Olivia, we need you to tell us how you found the body.”
“I over swung the club,” she sobbed. “The ball landed out here. I went to get it, and I saw…” Her voice trailed off.
Mark glanced over at the body. “It’s okay, Olivia. You’re doing great.” It must have been the tenth time she tried to tell the story. Mark didn’t want to push her. He doubted she would have any vital information, anyways.
“Thank you for your time,” he said. Edward patted her shaking shoulder softly before walking to the body with Mark.
A couple of uniformed cops were coming from the parking lot, carrying a stretcher. “Wait,” Mark called to the medical examiner. “Give us a second. Please.”
With a little hesitation, Dr. Nichols nodded and stood aside for them to examine the body. They crouched to get a closer look.
Nelson Hemming was about five foot nine, and a hundred sixty pounds. He was never one to turn heads at a night club. But, he was a genius. He pulled Alderman Daniel Aston out of a rut on the campaign trail and made him the Hero of the Party.
And now he laid here, body contorted unnaturally, and a small, vertical hole in his neck gaping menacingly. The waters of the lake had cleaned the wound, making it all the more nauseating to look at.
“There’s another hole like that in his back,” Dr. Nichols said from behind them. “Given the size, it must have been a pen or pencil, or maybe a letter opener. I think we can rule out accidental death here, gentlemen. The cuts are far too clean to be made by the rocks of the lake.”
Mark nodded, but this wasn’t really news. A five-year old could have told him it wasn’t accidental.
Now came the hard part. Finding the killer. But where to begin the search? Personal life, or professional?
He inwardly wondered how this would effect the elections.













Chapter Three



THE candidate looked around. He was surrounded by his closest advisors in his tiny campaign headquarters. There were very few ways to win this race, even fewer that were legal.
But he knew this was his one chance at being pulled from near-obscurity. He was willing to do anything to win.


* * * * * * * * * * * *
Daniel scanned the arena for the hundredth time from where he stood near the stage. Nelson was absent yet again. He was going to miss perhaps the most important moment of Daniel’s life: the keynote speech at the party’s national convention in Chicago.
Most people thought that this year’s convention was just for laughs. The president, after all, had the highest approval rating of any United States President in history. Regardless of party, the majority of the world liked President Howe.
However, that did not mean that Daniel would get votes just because he was on the same party as the president. It did, though, mean that he would get votes for giving the president heavy praise, as he most certainly would do in his keynote address. If all went well tonight, victory would be all but a cinch.



Mark and Edward stepped into the arena and made their way to the senator. The man had a nice life overall. The penthouse that Mark dreamed of would probably be a step down from where Senator Aston lived.
One of the perks to Mark’s line of work was the option to wear nice clothes. For instance, today he was wearing a blue Polo Ralph Lauren dress shirt, a yellow Roundtree & Yorke tie, Dockers pants, and Clark’s slip-on shoes. So, he could easily identify the red shirt that the senator was wearing as a Calvin Klein piece.
“Senator Aston,” Mark greeted him. He was always the talker of the duo. Edward seemed more interested in action than words. “I’m Mark Harris, and this is my colleague, Edward Derrick. We’re with Springfield Police.”
“Wow, all the way from Springfield. Must be important. How can I help?”
“Yes, sir, it is important. Very important,” Mark sighed heavily. “There is no easy way to tell you this, Senator. Nelson Hemming has been murdered.”
Aston’s eyes widened, and his jaw dropped. His face became very pale. He gaped at them stupidly for a moment. “Murdered,” he repeated in a whisper, as if it were a foreign word to him.
“Yes, sir,” Mark said grimly. “Do you know if Mr. Hemming had any enemies?”
“No,” he answered a little too quickly, and then paused. His face turned even paler. “Darby.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Joe Darby. He’s a consultant of Holcomb’s. He told Nelson to watch his back. I thought those were just empty words.” He began to massage his temples. “My God, this is all my fault. I could have hired a bodyguard for him. I could have let him stay at my house. I could have--”
“No, sir, this isn’t your fault at all,” Edward interrupted soothingly. “You had no way of knowing anything. You’ve been a major help for us, we won’t take any more of your time.”
“We really are sorry for your loss,” chimed Mark as they turned to the exit. After a beat, he turned back to the senator. “I’d ask you for an alibi, but unfortunately we have no time of death right now. If you could write up a brief report of all your whereabouts for the last week or so, whenever it’s convenient for you, I’d greatly appreciate it.”
“Anything to help you solve Nelson’s murder.”
“Thank you, Senator. Good luck with your speech.”












Chapter Four



THE candidate was speaking to his manager in private.
“You know this is the only way to win this,” he was telling him, “and I know that you have the resources.”
“I do,” the manager snapped. “And I want to win this just as badly as you do. But what you’re asking of me… Consider the possible ramifications. It could be career suicide.”
“It would be career suicide not to try this,” he retorted.
“I just want to make sure that you understand what you’re getting yourself into. It may take twenty years, but one day—and you mark my words on this—what you are doing will be discovered, and I cannot be considered a part of it. You will take the fall alone.” He punctuated the last word for emphasis.
But the candidate had made up his mind.
“I will win this election,” he said, “at any cost.”






As they made their way back to Edward’s Navigator, a sickening thought occurred to Mark. What if this was only the first killing of a series? What if the entire point of this was to shift the senatorial elections? It was against a detective’s training to assume any homicide was the first in a series of them, but when a man like Nelson Hemming was killed, you had to wonder.
He voiced as much to Edward.
“You know, it’s worth looking into,” Edward said when Mark was done talking. “We can make a few calls, tighten security even more for the convention tonight.”
Mark nodded. It was probably nothing. There was certainly no evidence to back the hunch. It was just a gut-feeling. But, they had nothing to lose in placing a few calls.
He shook his head, remembering what Senator Aston told them. Darby. Joe Darby was who they needed to focus on. They’d make the calls, but they wouldn’t dwell on this hunch.
* * * * * * * * * * * *



Joe Darby’s apartment was not in the place you might expect a deputy campaign manager to a senatorial candidate to live in—lush gardens, room with a view, toilets that cost more than Mark’s car.
No, this was just the opposite. He lived nowhere near any kind of upscale living quarters. He lived in Room Number Nine of the Canal Place, a relatively new apartment complex that was generally populated by citizens of a negative background. A local hoodlum had taken a letter off the entrance sign to give it a message possibly relating to homosexuals. The yards were littered with cigarette butts.
Mark had once lived in a similar neighborhood. He was not considered a great cop back then, and his paycheck reflected it. But, when he learned that his wife was pregnant, that he was going to be a father, he knew they had to move. And the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Days after he got the news, a big case came across his desk: a series of people with similar murders, dying just hours apart, but they had seemingly nothing in common when they were alive. After plenty of detective-work, Mark connected them all to a man named Jason Souza. As a result, he received quite a pay raise. A week later, they moved to their beautiful apartment. Still, it wasn’t as great as that penthouse that had become his obsession. He wanted his family to have only the best.
Back to present-day, Mark rapped three times on the door of Room Number Nine, and waited. After about a minute, he heard the locks shifting and watched the door swing open. There stood Darby.
Joe Darby had greasy black hair with a few patches of grey. He was wearing a long, white tee shirt, paired with cargo shorts. On his feet were some rather dirty socks and worn, brown sandals. It appeared he hadn’t shaved in days. But the most notable thing about Joe Darby was his size. He was a rather obese man, who could be compared to the bearded ladies of carnivals that probably took the facial hair from the great men that they ate for breakfast.
He gave a deep grunt at the sight of them. “I was expecting my landlord. Who are you?”
“Forgive me, sir,” Mark began, “but are you Joe Darby?”
Darby grunted again. “Depends on who’s askin’,” he said as he drew a pack of Marlboros from his back pocket. He extracted a cig, and lit it with a green Bic plastic lighter.
“Springfield Police, sir.”
There was that awful grunt for the third time. “I suppose I’m Joe Darby,” he said reluctantly.
“Mr. Darby, what can you tell me about Nelson Hemming?”
The grunt was now replaced by an enormous groan. “A real asshole, him. He had no right to talk about me the way he did. Suppose you heard all about that on the news--”
“Mr. Darby, Nelson Hemming has been murdered.”
Darby stopped dead in his tracks. His face turned even paler than Senator Aston’s had. But unlike Aston, he did not repeat the word aloud. He simply mouthed it to himself a few times.
“Mr. Darby, is it true that you told Hemming to ‘watch his back’?”
Darby shook his head vigorously. Then said, “I mean, yeah, I guess I said it, but I ain’t mean nothin’ by it. Just tryin’ to spook the opposition, you know? But I didn’t—you know—kill him, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”
“Sir, we aren’t jumping to any conclusions. We’re just being thorough.” Actually, he was a suspect—their only suspect as of yet.
Darby’s face turned to its original stony state as he took a long drag off the cig, and then exhaled a lot of smoke through his nostrils. “Well, then if I’m not gonna be arrested, you might as well get the hell out of here.” And with that, the fat man slammed the door on the detectives, one of whom had never even gotten a chance to speak.



Chapter Five




SENATOR Aston absorbed the cheers of the massive audience before him. There were dozens, perhaps hundreds, of signs proclaiming that he deserved six more years in office. As he reached the podium, he shook hands with the Speaker of the House, Congresswoman Anita Bain. She was probably twenty years older than Daniel, and far more qualified to deliver a speech of this magnitude.
He spent what seemed like hours attempting to politely silence the massive cheers coming from the crowds. He felt overwhelmed. But, he gathered himself. The majority of his speech involved praising President Howe for his popular stances on healthcare, economic stimulus, and The War. He often had to pause to allow the crowd to get the cheers out. When all was said and done, he felt his Giorgio Armani coat drenched in sweat.
Daniel thought about Nelson, about how proud he would have been to see the senator in this glorious moment.
Jeff Monroe told him what would happen the next day. Newsmagazines would call Daniel “President Howe’s right-hand man” and that, if Vice President Taylor were to leave office for any reason, Illinois’ top dog would be a shoe-in for the replacement. In any case, they would predict he would begin an enormous presidential campaign in three years.
This made Daniel feel great about himself. But, it also made him miss Nelson all the more.
When he had completed his speech, he thanked the audience for their support and walked off the stage with the slightest tear forming in his eye.
“You did great,” Diane Todd, his new manager, told him gently. “Nelson would have loved it.”
Daniel tried to hide his emotions, but the tear had become a rather large one. “Thanks,” he said simply. He was becoming less and less sure of himself. He felt like he had accomplished nothing over the last six years, he was such a famed senator merely for his astonishing victory six years ago, his rejuvenation of the party’s spirits by tearing down the political machine and defeating a seven-term senator. He began to wonder how accurate Jeff’s ideas really were.
Did the president really give a damn about Daniel? Or did he see right through him, see his lack of accomplishments?
Did Terry Howe, President of the United States of America, see Daniel Aston for who he really was?
Daniel was beginning to think so. He was beginning to think that a lot of people were seeing him for what he was. He was beginning to wonder if the polls had any merit to them at all, if he actually had a chance in hell at winning this election.
But then he thought of all those signs with his name on it, all of those American people shouting their support. But what if they were the only ones who still cared about him? It was a depressing feeling, a sinking feeling.
And the only thing he thought could be the cause of these feelings was the death of his best friend, his best advisor, Nelson Hemming.
And the tears began to pour.











Chapter Five



WICS ABC 20 was just about to announce the senatorial election results. First, senior political analyst John Mendoza announced the results for the other twenty-nine Senate seats up for grabs from around the nation. Then he announced the more interesting one to the people of Illinois. The candidate won with a nine percent lead over the incumbent.
At this announcement, Andrew Troy, deputy campaign manager, lit the cigar he had been holding. The young speech writer named Diane Todd clapped her hands with glee. Other workers had similar reactions. The candidate—now Senator Elect—and his campaign manager closed their eyes and absorbed it all.
They had done it.


* * * * * * * * * * * *


Unlike Joe Darby, Nelson Hemming had lived in a high-class gated community. Mark approached Number Ninety-four, Twin Oaks, slowly. He was in no hurry to conduct this interview. In fact, he rather dreaded it. It was never easy to ask a widow if her late husband had any enemies, had any dirty little secrets. It always seemed to come a little easier for Edward, though, so for once, he would lead the interview.
Mark pressed the button that created a slow chime inside. He counted the seconds that went by. At thirty-five, the door slowly opened.
Melissa Hemming was a somewhat frail woman. She was the same height as Nelson, but only weighed around one-hundred and twenty pounds. Her blonde hair was slightly frizzed. She looked like your typical politician’s wife. Elegant but aged.
Today, she looked as if she had been crying for quite some time. There were deep circles around her eyes. Mark imagined she normally looked much younger. “Hi, I am Detective Derrick, and this is my partner, Detective Harris, with Springfield PD,” Edward began professionally. “Mrs. Hemming, I’m sorry it took us so long to get here. We’ve been working hard on this case. I assume by now you are aware of what has happened?”
She gave a sullen nod. “The police commissioner himself delivered the news to me.”
“Mrs. Hemming, did Nelson have anybody who might have wanted him dead?”
“Darby,” she answered quickly. “Joe Darby. That fat bastard has wanted my Nelson dead for a long time. And he finally got the guts to kill him.” She released a hard sob.
“Yes, ma’am. We have interviewed Mr. Darby.”
“And you didn’t arrest him?” She looked outraged.
“Unfortunately, ma’am, the only thing we are authorized to disclose with you about this case is that it is not yet closed. I’m truly sorry. Now, did he have any other enemies?”
She thought about it for a while. She really did want to help them. After a while, she shook her head. “And he wouldn’t do anything rash. Not when our poor baby needed him the most.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but what do you mean by that?” It was Mark that asked this question.
“My beautiful little Alice, the only thing I’m sure Nelson loved more than me, has leukemia. He was working so hard to raise money for her treatments.”
Mark thought about this. A man in desperate need of cash could do desperate, foolish things. It wouldn’t be the first time Mark encountered a homicide victim who needed money so decided to put some money on a sure thing, in football, basketball, the tracks… really, gambling was a serious issue with any sport more popular than horseshoes. And the ringleaders didn’t like unpaid debts.
“Do you know if Nelson had a gambling problem?” he hated himself for asking the question even as the words escaped his mouth.
“He absolutely did not,” she snapped. “He would never, in a million years. He was a decent man.”
She was adamant about his innocence. Mark saw that all further inquiry of her would be a waste of time. He could tell that Edward was thinking the same thing. The detectives thanked Mrs. Hemming politely and returned to the Navigator.






Chapter Six





AFTER making a few calls, Mark and Edward decided that the best place to find Benjamin Hemming was at White Oaks Mall, particularly in Champs Sports, if he was not at his condo.
And they weren’t wrong: when they arrived at Champs Sports, Nelson Hemming’s brother was examining a pair of bicycle shorts with great interest.
Benjamin was wearing an Under Armour golf cap and top, gym shorts, and an expensive pair of Asics shoes. Under the cap was a conservative haircut. He clearly believed that he had a lot of muscle that nobody else saw.
The arrogance of this man was maddening. Benjamin was one of those people that Mark instantly took a disliking to, so he did not care to spare the man his feelings.
“Mr. Hemming,” he called gruffly. When Benjamin turned to face him, Mark flashed his badge proudly. He was glad to be tougher than this man. “What can you tell us about your brother, Nelson?”
“Well, what do you want to know?” he asked in a somewhat nasally voice.
“Do you have any idea why someone would want him killed?”
He apparently was aware of the situation. “None. The only enemy of his that I knew of was his heart. He had high blood pressure for the last six years of his young life.”
“Interesting,” and it was. “Tell me something, Benjamin, what was your relationship like with your brother?”
“Do you always bully the victim’s family like this, Detective…?
“Harris. And I’m not bullying anyone. I just need some answers, and it includes that one.”
Benjamin sighed. “We had a good relationship. He treated me like a medical advisor. He always asked me the health-related questions.”
“I’m glad to hear it. A man in your physical condition should be giving health advice,” Mark said seriously. He could see a restrained laugh in Edward’s face. “Now, answer me this: as far as you were aware, did Nelson have a gambling problem?”
Benjamin did not seem offended by this question, as Melissa had been. He shrugged. “I doubt it. Though I guess it would explain the blood pressure, all the stress invlolved.”
And so it would, Mark thought, ignoring the fact that the managing the campaign of a high profile senator could be rather stressful. “What was his favorite sport? Do you know?”
“The Hemming family is a football family. That’s the one sport we are practically required to love by blood.”
Good. There were plenty of deep cover feds in football and basketball gambling rings. Other sports were still a bit tricky to penetrate. It would be a matter of calling the right people at the Bureau and having them get some of those deep cover agents to check bookie’s rolodexes.
Mark wasn’t sure if he wanted the name “Nelson Hemming” to be found or not. On one hand, the name would mean Mark was a step closer the case. However, it would also mean that Nelson Hemming, a role model to many, was dirty.








Chapter Seven



THE senator and his best friend, the man who saved his career nearly six years ago, sat comfortably in his campaign headquarters office. The whisky felt good in the senator’s throat.
“You sure Melissa is fine with you being here? She usually hates Poker Night.”
“Yeah, she doesn’t mind this time,” the manager shrugged. “She has a high school friend over there tonight. Some guy named Anthony Dunn.”
“A guy? You trust them alone together?”
“Yeah, I trust her. She ended it with him, so whatever.”
“Wow.”
The manager gave a noncommittal grunt.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

While he waited for the gambling lead to pan out, Mark had to do some more investigating. Today they were using his Silverado instead of Edward’s Navigator. He expertly navigated through the evening traffic to the Aston Campaign Headquarters.
There, Senator Aston, who looked as though he hadn’t slept in days, allowed them to use his large office as an interviewing room. First up was Jeff Monroe, an expert on the media.
Though his name gave no indication of it, Jeff Monroe was a Korean American. He had a receding hairline, and was wearing a cheap, white polo shirt with dark cargo pants. His sneakers were the only thing that looked relatively new. He must have felt so unprofessional sitting across from Mark, in his charcoal stripe Ralph Lauren suit, and Edward, in a navy suit complete with an off-white tie and golden pocket square.
“Did Nelson Hemming have any enemies?” it must have been the thousandth time Mark had to ask this question.
“Yes,” Jeff said carefully. “He was in quite a feud with Joe Darby. ABC News called it the ‘Battle Behind the Scenes’.”
“So I’ve been told. Can you tell me what the rivalry was about?”
“Darby set up a complete and utter lie about Senator Aston. Made him out to be a lunatic. Daniel is a kind man, though. He didn’t have the heart to lash back. So Nelson did.”
Mark nodded. He finally had the full picture on that part.



Next up was Diane Todd, Hemming’s replacement as campaign manager. For the most part, the conversation was much the same as it had been with Monroe. Until they reached the subject of her promotion upon Hemming’s death.
“You were a speechwriter for the senator prior to Mr. Hemming’s death, correct?” Mark inquired.
“That’s right.”
“Was there a pay raise when you were promoted to manager?” asked Edward.
“Well, of course. But with it comes many more responsibilities.”
“When was the last time you saw Mr. Hemming alive?”
“I suppose it was two days before the convention. He seemed a bit uneasy,” she added.
“Oh? How so?”
“Well, it was nothing, really. He just wanted to speak with Senator Aston alone right away. He was acting a little impatient. But, it was probably nothing,” she said with a wave of her hand.
Mark nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. “Well, thank you for your time, Miss Todd. We’ll stay in touch.”



Mark was sure it felt odd for Aston to sit on the other side of his own desk. Edward was outside, telling the campaign workers what he was allowed to about their ongoing investigation.
“Senator, I understand that Nelson Hemming wanted a word with you in private two days before I informed you of his murder?”
“Yes, that’s correct. Why?”
“Senator, to be thorough, I would like to know what Mr. Hemming was so eager to see you about.”
Aston sighed. “Because we had a bet going on the Sox-Twins game. His Twins pulled out a good one. He wanted his fifty bucks.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes. Why? Were you expecting something more dramatic?”
“Honestly, Senator, I didn’t know what to expect. But a small bet certainly wasn’t high on the list.”
Aston leaned forward with a stern expression on his face. “Am I a suspect here, Detective?”
Mark cleared his throat. “No, sir, of course not. I just thought perhaps your conversation with him might hold some kind of connection with his murder.” He stopped to think. After a while, he said, “Are you sure the bet was only fifty dollars, Senator?”
“Certain. Does that make a difference?”
“You know that I am not allowed to disclose that information, sir.”
Aston nodded, visibly disappointed. “I understand, Detective.”
Mark’s cell phone emitted a bell that sounded like one of those antique phones’ ring. “I’m sorry, excuse me,” he said to the senator as he stood to his feet and walked to a corner of the room.
“Harris,” he answered without checking caller ID.
“Harris, it’s Randy.”
Relief flooded Mark’s head. Randy Griffiths was a federal agent stationed in Point Reyes, California. Despite the distance, Randy was a very helpful FBI contact for Mark.
“What have you got for me?”
“I’ve got nothing. I pulled a few strings, got eyes on a lot of bookies’ lists. The name ‘Nelson Hemming’ is nowhere on any of them. Chances are you got a bad lead.”
Mark sighed heavily. He had decided that he did want to find out that Hemming had a gambling problem. He was growing weary of this case. “Thanks, Randy. I’ll call you back later.”
“Okay.”
He flipped the phone shut.
“Who was that? You look disappointed.”
“With all due respect, Senator, it does not concern you.”
“The hell it doesn’t. Nelson Hemming was my best friend, and you’re telling me it isn’t my business?”
“It was about a different case,” he lied to shut up the frustrated senator. He closed his eyes to ask the question he knew he should have asked in Chicago but lacked the spirit to: “Did you have a life insurance plan on Hemming?”
“No. Honestly, we never saw a reason to insure him. He was a relatively healthy man, if not a little overweight. Although, his brother would tell you that he was a walking heart attack.”
Mark opened his eyes. The rage he expected from the senator never came. “Yes, his brother did seem overly interested in health and fitness.” He thought his own words strange, but they were true. Health and fitness is great, but Benjamin Hemming went overboard with it. “Well, Senator, I’m so sorry to have taken so much of your time. I know this is crunch time for you. Good luck on the campaign trail.”
“Thank you. Now, go find that son of a bitch who killed Nelson.”