Free Access to Power by Robert Ellis Page A

negative research for the last five election cycles and was extremely thorough, the best in the business. Over the years, they had become friends.
    “Lou Kay gets his car washed every Saturday,” Mario said. “He’s been going to the same carwash for the last ten years.”
    “So what?”
    “The carwash hires illegals. Indirectly, Lou Kay’s hired illegals for the last ten years.”
    “This isn’t a House seat, Mario. I need better than that. Something real, or almost real.”
    Mario paused a moment, then asked, “Why are we meeting here? Why not at the office like always?”
    Frank lit a cigarette without answering.
    “Are you okay, Frank?”
    “The day Woody died,” he said in a quieter voice. “We argued, Mario. I threw him out of my office.”
    “Woody was losing a lot of races. I did his research. Every time we met he was a wreck.”
    “His client files aren’t where they’re supposed to be. His office isn’t right.”
    “Washington’s the stickup capital of the world, Frank. What happened to Woody goes on every day. Maybe you’re just feeling guilty. About the way things were left, I mean.”
    “Maybe.”
    Frank waited for a couple to pass with their two young children. He guessed that they were on vacation, like so many other families who visit Washington to see the buildings, museums, maybe even take in an afternoon at the Capitol, watching their government in action. They seemed like a nice family. They looked innocent, and he hoped that they wouldn’t get mugged. When they were out of earshot, Frank turned back to Mario and lowered his voice.
    “The cops can’t even explain how the kid who shot Woody got into the fucking office. Something’s not right.”
    “Jesus, Frank.”
    He saw Mario’s concern, but ignored it. Frank had spent the afternoon trying to satisfy his doubts, but couldn’t. He’d checked Woody’s filing cabinet again and sliced his finger open as the drawer swayed shut. He’d gone downstairs and examined the front door. The wood was intact, the paint not even scratched. Every window in the building was secure. Frank realized that his doubts were nothing more than loose ends. Why Woody’s current files were buried in the back of a drawer, or how Sonny Stockwell managed to get into a locked office without tools didn’t mean that the kid hadn’t murdered Woody. What bothered Frank was that both questions defied explanation. Even more troubling, Randolph and Grimes were seasoned detectives and didn’t seem concerned. In a political campaign, loose ends had a way of unraveling until they blew something a part. Usually a candidate’s life, along with their hopes and dreams.
    Mario reached inside his jacket for a pen. “Before you go crazy with this, let me check these cops out. What are their names?”
    Frank got rid of his cigarette, knowing that he had one more stop to make before he could go home. “Max Randolph and Ted Grimes,” he said.
     
    *          *          *
     
    It was a Baptist church set in a neighborhood where you kept your guard up. Poverty held onto the people who lived here with both fists and wouldn’t let go.
    Frank could hear the choir practicing as he walked up the steps, cracked open the door and peeked inside. They were standing before the music director, trying to concentrate on their sheet music as they spotted him entering.
    Frank found the pastor waiting for him in the last pew. He was a gentle giant of sorts; a big man with a wise face whose firm presence remained formidable despite his age. He wore expensive suits, the rings on both hands standing out against his dark complexion the way gold should. Reverend Doc Neilmarker had helped Frank and Woody with voter turnout for years. He controlled the poorest sections of the city and had a political reach that carried into Virginia and Maryland, even North Carolina. If anyone could help him, Frank knew that it would be Neilmarker.
    He made his way down the aisle. Neilmarker