SENATOR MARSHALL YARROW was pulling a bag of golf clubs out of the back of his Navigator when he saw me and Sampson coming across the parking lot of the Washington Golf and Country Club. He looked like I’d just ruined his perfectly good Saturday morning. Imagine that. What a damn shame.
“What in hell’s name are you doing here?” he asked as we came up to his vehicle.
“Three appointments, three cancellations,” I told him. “Call me crazy, Senator, but I’d say you’re avoiding me. You were, anyway.”
“And who’s this?” He looked John over—more up than down, given Sampson’s height.
“This is my partner, Detective Sampson. You can just pretend he’s not here. He fits right in, doesn’t he? We both do. Maybe as caddies.”
Yarrow snorted at me and waved to someone waiting under the porte cochere in front of the club. “Mike, I’ll see you inside. Order me an espresso, would you?”
I realized after the fact that the other man had been Michael Hart, a senator from North Carolina, and a Democrat to Yarrow’s Republican.
“Would you rather talk in my car?” I asked him. “Or maybe in yours?”
“Do I look like I want to get in a car with you, Detective Cross?” I was surprised he remembered my name.
He stepped back out of sight then, between his own SUV and the other giant boat parked next to it, a brand-new Hummer H3T. With the likely hundred-thousand-dollar joining fee at this place, I guess no one was too worried about gas prices.
“I won’t keep you long, Senator,” I said, “but I thought you’d want to know, we’re a little short on leads here. The only next step I can see is to start releasing the recordings from Tony Nicholson’s club.”
Yarrow’s eyes flitted over to Sampson; I think he was wondering if both of us had seen him in action, or just me. His hands tightened over the head cover of the TaylorMade driver in his bag.
“So unless you’ve got some other meaningful direction we might go in—”
“Why would I?” he said, still cool.
“Just a gut feeling I had. Something about all those missed appointments.”
He took a deep breath and ran a hand over the weekend stubble around his chin. “Well, obviously I’ve got to run all this by my attorney.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” I said. “But just so you know, this is a working Saturday for us. We need to get one thing or another done today.”
I almost felt bad for Yarrow, he looked so uncomfortable. There were no good options left, and he knew it. When I’m lucky, that brings people right to the truth.
“Just for the sake of argument,” he said, “what could you offer me by way of immunity?”
“Nothing right now. That’s up to the DA.”
“Right, ’cause you people never wheel and deal, is that it?”
“Here’s what I can offer you,” I said. “You tell us what you know, and then when the Secret Service comes looking for you, and they will, it won’t be about obstruction of justice and conspiracy to cover up a string of murders.”
I could only imagine how much Yarrow was hating me right now. Without ever taking his eyes off mine, he said, “Tell me something, Detective Sampson. Would you say your partner here is a vindictive man?”
Sampson laid a big hand on the roof of Yarrow’s car. “Vindictive? Nah, that’s not Alex. I’d say more like realistic. Might be a good word for you to consider about now.”
At first, I thought Senator Yarrow was going to walk, or maybe even go postal with one of those TaylorMade irons of his. Instead, he reached into his pocket, and the doors on the Lincoln chirped open.
“Just get in the car.”