A Killing Sky by Andy Straka Page B

was swatting away a pesky mosquito. “Why don't I let Representative Drummond talk to you about that?”
    Our conversation so far had been less than productive. Since he worked for the congressman, I thought he might know something about the security detail out at the house. He claimed he didn't. Since he'd been with Drummond for a long time, I thought he might be able to give me some hints about his boss's extracurricular romantic activities. My subtle attempts at raising the subject had been received like flatulence at a press conference.
    Dworkin allowed himself a small yawn. I noticed he was missing the top half of one finger on his right hand.
    “Cartwright's disappearance is tragic,” he finally said, as if reading from a script. “It's something you can't plan for. We're still hoping for the best. Politics sort of takes a backseat.”
    But even as he mouthed the words I could sense him calculating the prospects. The slightest trace of a smile crossed his mouth, disappearing almost as soon as it had materialized. He knew if they played their cards right with this thing, the sympathy vote would be huge.
    A soft thud came from the direction of Drummond's office. The door swung open again, and this time the congressman himself stepped out. He was an imposing presence up close: about six-three with sharp-cut features, short black hair combed precisely across his forehead, white shirt and tie with the sleeves rolled up, and dark eyes well practiced in expressing empathy. I could see the Stetson hanging on a peg in his office. He closed the door behind him and made a beeline toward me, his hand extended. His leather boots creaked as he walked.
    “Mr. Pavlicek?”
    “That's right.” I stood to meet his handshake and noticed Dworkin stood too, as if instant virtue had somehow been thrust upon us. The aide moved to close the door to the reception area as well.
    Drummond's grip was firm but not too firm, and he held it a moment longer than was needed. “I want to thank you for your involvement in this situation… for helping Cassidy,” he said.
    “I'm not sure there's too much to be thankful for yet,” I said, reminding myself I was talking to a potential rapist.
    “Yes, but from what my ex-wife tells me, you've performed a valuable service, and I won't forget that.”
    I wondered how many times he'd uttered that line. He sat down in a chair next to his aide's seat and motioned for us to follow suit.
    “Please,” he said. “Sit down.”
    Dworkin and I resumed our seats.
    “The police come up with any more leads?” I asked.
    “No, I'm afraid not.”
    “We've asked that the congressman be immediately informed of any developments,” Dworkin intoned, a little louder than the situation warranted.
    Drummond shook his head. He placed his hands on the table and stared at them for a moment. He seemed to be looking inside himself at something he could barely stand to see. There were no tears in his eyes. Only uncertainty. Feigned or real, it was impossible to tell. “Now what's this I hear about my other daughter hiring you and you not being willing to tell anyone where she is?”
    The two men stared at me the way they might examine an ugly insect.
    “I'm afraid you've been misinformed.”
    “Oh? I was told that—”
    “It's Cassidy who doesn't want anyone to know where she is. She's my client. I'm doing as she has asked.”
    “I see.” The congressman digested this information for a few moments.
    “Didn't your ex-wife tell you that?”
    He shook his head. “Karen and I have generally limited communication these days.”
    “The cops ain't too happy with you, Pavlicek,” Dworkin said. “You'd better watch where you step.”
    “Yes,” Drummond said. “Wouldn't Cassidy be able to help with the investigation?”
    “The investigation is ongoing,” I said.
    “What's that supposed to mean?” Dworkin's brow furrowed, and his syrupy voice suddenly switched to a snarl.
    “It means I have some more questions