“But to get to the heart of the matter, did you find anything?” Colles asked.
“Yes. The information you got from Messalina Brown is correct,” the young woman said. “Anthem and Hart have stolen about three hundred and forty thousand dollars in campaign funds. I believe they’ve blown most of it in a casino in Mobile, Alabama. In their defense, they’re having a really good time.”
Colles: “What!”
Welp: “Even so, I’m not sure that justifies breaking into . . .”
“Shut up, Welp,” Colles said. “How’d they do it?”
“I wrote a full report yesterday, after I got back to D.C. I’ve attached the relevant documents and a couple of photographs of the happy couple at Harrah’s Gulf Coast casino on Friday night. It’s here.” She took a file out of her backpack and passed it to Colles.
Welp: “Even if it proves to be true, you’ve far transgressed . . .”
“Doesn’t matter what you believe,” Letty Davenport interrupted. “I quit. You guys bore the crap outta me.”
TWO
Letty worked in what its denizens called the bullpen, an open room of low-ranking senatorial assistants and researchers, each with his or her own desk and filing cabinet, surrounded by a hip-high fabric cubicle wall. Most of the staffers were either recent Ivy League graduates or smart state school grads, getting close to power.
As a graduate of a heavyweight West Coast university, with a master’s degree in something useful, combined with her cool reserve and the way she dressed, Letty was different. She was smart, hard-nosed and hard-bodied, lean, muscled like a dancer, and occasionally displayed a sharp, dry wit.
The young women in the bullpen noticed that her clothes carried fashionable labels, while tending toward the dark and functional, if not quite military. Her jewelry was sparse but notable, and always gold. One of the Ivy Leaguers excessively admired a chain bracelet set with a single, unfaceted green stone, and asked if she could try it on.
Letty was amenable. After the other woman had tried and returned the bracelet, and Letty had gone, a friend asked the Ivy Leaguer, “Well, what did you find out?”
“Harry Winston.”
“Really.”
“Honest to God,” the Ivy Leaguer said. “That stone is a raw fucking uncut emerald, like Belperron used. We could mug her, sell the bracelet, and buy a Benz. Maybe two Benzes.”
“You could mug her. I’ve seen her working out, so I’ll pass on that.”
* * *
When Letty finished briefing Colles and Welp on the Tallahassee situation, she left them studying the purloined spreadsheets, dropped her letter of resignation on Welp’s desk—two weeks’ notice—and walked down to the bullpen. An hour later, Welp called and said, “Get up here. Senator Colles wants to speak with you.”
When she walked back into the senator’s reception area, Colles, Welp, and a legislative assistant named Leslie Born were huddled in a nook under a portrait of Colles shaking hands with the elder George Bush. They were arguing about something in low but angry tones; maybe the missing money. Colles saw Letty and snapped, “Get in my office. I’ll be there in a minute.”
Letty went into Colles’s private office and sprawled sideways in one of the comfortable leather club chairs, her legs draped over a well-padded arm. And why not? What was he going to do, fire her?
Colles came in five minutes later, slammed his door. “I apologize for snapping at you out there,” he said.
“You should. You were pretty goddamn impolite,” Letty said, dropping her feet to the floor.
“You’re right, I was. Because you’re not the problem. Let me tell you, sweet pea: don’t ever get yourself elected to the Senate,” Colles said, as he settled behind his desk. He was a tall man, big whitened teeth, ruddy face, carefully groomed gray hair. “There are more numb-nuts around here than in the Florida state legislature, which, believe me, was a whole passel of numb-nuts.”