True Blue

CHAPTER 11

TWO PATROL COPS, one senior and one junior, were admiring Mace’s Ducati when she came out of HQ.

“Nice ride,” said the older blue as Mace slid onto the seat.

“Yes, it is,”

she said.

“Ducati?” he said, looking at the name label.

“An Italian-engineered street machine that once you ride it, you dream about it.”

The younger cop checked out her lean, buffed figure and pretty face and his mouth edged into a grin. “Wanta take me for a ride one night? Maybe we can share a dream.”

“Get back to your shift and stop wasting time talking to excons!” The voice came with such a bark that both cops and Mace jumped. When Mace saw who it was, her hand went reflexively to the spot where she would normally wear her sidearm.

The two cops faded away as the woman marched forward.

Mona Danforth had on her usual expensive two-piece Armani suit, and a bulky litigation briefcase large enough to carry the fates of several targets of the lady’s professional ambition tapped against one shapely leg. To add insult to injury, Mona was tall and exceptionally lovely and not yet forty. The way her blond hair curved around her swan neck Mace had to grudgingly concede would turn most guys to mush. She had legs about as long as Mace’s entire body. She’d graduated from Stanford Law School, where, of course, she’d been editor in chief of the law review. She was married to a sixty-five-year-old multimillionaire based in New York who provided all the financial resources she would ever need and wasn’t around very much. She lived in a fabulous penthouse with wraparound terraces near Penn Quarter that he’d bought for her. And her looks, money, and power position weren’t even the primary reasons that Mace hated her guts, although they certainly didn’t hurt.

Mace knew that being U.S. attorney for D.C. was just another stepping stone on the climb up for the woman. Mace had heard that Mona had her life all mapped out: a short stint as the U.S. attorney for D.C., then attorney general of the United States, next a court of appeals position, and then the prized plum, a lifetime appointment to the United States Supreme Court. When she was wasn’t trying and winning cases by any means necessary, including bending the rules until they shattered from the torque, she was lining her pockets with all the political favors she would need to fulfill that ambition.

She had already been to the White House for dinner, not once but twice. Her hubby had been a big donor to the current president’s election campaign. Beth Perry, who’d reached the top of her profession on hard work and guts and by playing by the rules, hadn’t even been invited once. That still rankled her little sister.

Mona stopped and looked down at Mace, who sat astride her Ducati, her helmet dangling in one hand.

“My God,” said Mona. “You look like shit. I figured you weren’t nearly as tough as people made you out to be, and I guess I was right. And, hell, you were only in a kindergarten lockup for two years. Just think what a hag you’d be if you’d done the proper time in a max. A deuce for that was a joke. Thank goodness for you that big sister was around to hold your sweaty little hand.”

Mace slipped on her helmet and fired up her bike. Then she lifted up the visor so she could eyeball the woman. “Hey, Mona, I’ve been gone for twenty-four months and the best you can do is interim U.S. attorney? You need to ratchet up the political humping, babycakes, before your looks really slide into your ass.”

Mace popped the clutch and sped off. In the side mirror she saw Ms. Interim staring at her. That had been pretty stupid, Mace had to admit, but she had actually shown restraint. What she’d really wanted to do was find a wood-chipper, stuff Mona in it, and get right to work.

She had a chunk of time before she was to meet the rich Altman and she knew exactly how she wanted to spend her first day of freedom. She clicked the Ducati into high gear.

As she roared along down by the river, the seagulls dipped down to grab shiny trash off the muddy Potomac before tilting their wings and angling skyward. The monuments basked in the glow of a warming sun. Tourists wandered around, maps in hand; Secret Service agents hovered at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue keeping the man safe. Over on Capitol Hill, senators, House reps, and armies of aides and golden-tongued lobbyists shuffled through their elaborate dance of running the country right into the dirt.

In many ways the town was sick, corrupt, maddening, frustrating, and patronizing. Still, Mace couldn’t help but smile as the Ducati blew past an Old Town Trolley carrying a load of out-of-towners eyeballing with awe the shrines to Tom, Abe, and the mighty white obelisk to George.

That was because this was her town.

Mace Perry was back.