East Summit when the wedding had taken place. He remembered watching some of the coverage. The Sullivans and Joneses, while hardly in the Kennedy class, had still made a pretty big splash. Even the veep had attended the festivities. She’d made a beautiful bride. Not pretty in the usual sense, but with an innate poise that could easily be called regal. He’d caught a flash of that funny little half smile he remembered from their one and only meeting years earlier.
It had been a few years after that when the lid had blown off the first scandal. There’d been rumblings before, but nothing that couldn’t be blamed on partisan politics. Finally, with its back to the wall, Justice had appointed an independent council to investigate, and Rocky had watched from whatever assignment he happened to be on as one after another, Senator J. Abernathy Jones’s sins were laid bare.
The feeding frenzy had eventually brought down half a dozen smaller fry, but if memory served, the young congressman his daughter had married some six years earlier had not been among them. Sullivan’s downfall had come a year or so later, following what had started out as a simple drug bust. By then the senator had been history.
Rocky hadn’t wanted to watch the second chapter unfold, but with all the networks covering the story, it was unavoidable. And, unfortunately, understandable. Juicy scandals had a way of selling newspapers, hiking ratings, making careers. That had been proven too many times to be in doubt.
So he’d witnessed the handsome young congressman’s downfall, watched as the press—his own peers—had hounded the man’s wife, his office staff, even his barber. He remembered thinking once, seeing Sullivan’s wife trapped by a mob of yelling reporters between the front door of her Arlington house and a car driven by her housekeeper, that Joan of Arc might have worn the same stoic expression.
That had been more than a year ago. Immersed in his own crisis, Rocky hadn’t thought of her since then.
Now he did.
Her name had been Sarah Mariah Jones the first time he’d ever seen her. It had been at a fund-raiser sponsored by a couple of Hollywood celebrities. She must have been about fifteen years old at the time. He’d been a green reporter and she’d been a gawky kid trying hard to look as if she weren’t dying to be someplace else. Anyplace else. He remembered reading somewhere that her mother had died recently. The senator’s habit of using her for photo ops, then shoving her into the background had been pretty well established. Rumor had it that years ago he had forgotten and left her at a town hall meeting in a school gymnasium for about six hours before he’d remembered to send someone to pick her up.
It had occurred to him that day at the fund-raiser that she’d been painfully aware of her own role in her father’s struggling reelection campaign. She was there to be used the way he used everyone else, then shoved aside until the need arose again. The old pol had played the family card for all it was worth, ever since his opponent, a married man with three children, had been caught in a compromising situation with an aide.
It had been the standard celebrity bash. Only those journalists who shared the senator’s ideology had been invited to meet and mingle with the glitterati. Rocky, who had considered himself politically unbiased at that early stage of his budding career, had been on his way out when he’d spotted the girl.
In a dress that was obviously expensive and painfully unflattering, the young Sarah Mariah had watched her father buttonhole another major contributor, clasp his hand, slap him on the arm and then proceed to apply the thumbscrews. Something about her expression had caught his attention. It reminded him too much of children he’d seen with eyes far too old for their tender years.
Which was probably why, from a mixture of boredom and sympathy, he had collected a cup of tea and a finger sandwich—asparagus and cream cheese, he remembered distinctly—and made his way over to the potted palm where she’d gone to earth.
“Hi. My name’s Rocky and I’m a truant officer. Do you have your parents’ permission to be here?” Silly stuff, but hell—she was just a kid.
“How do you do, Mr. Rocky. My name is Anonymous Jones, and if you blow my cover I’ll be deported at the very least, beheaded if the king’s having a bad hair day.”
“Yeah, I figured as much.” They’d both stared at the senator’s trademark silver pompadour. “Brought you a last meal just in case. Asparagus sandwiches. They looked like a safer bet than those small brown things.”
“The barbecued loin of weasel?”
“Those were all gone. There were a couple of the guppy filets left, but you know what they say about seafood.”
“No, what do they say?”
He’d shrugged. “Beats me.”
She had smiled then. A quick, spontaneous smile that was gone almost before it appeared. They had talked for a few minutes and then she’d reached for the tea. Her hand had struck the saucer, and in trying to catch the cup before it spilled, she’d managed to dump the sandwich onto his shoes. Cream-cheese side down. Smack on the laces, where it couldn’t easily be wiped off.
The poor kid had looked stricken, so he’d forgotten his own irritation and made some crack about asparagus being a known insect repellant. “It’s the scent, you know? You ever sniff an asparagus? Whoa. Really bad stuff.”
She’d looked so grateful he’d been afraid she was going to do something gauche, like kissing his hand. Mumbling something about an appointment, he’d left before she could embarrass them both.
Even then it had occurred to him that she had vulnerable eyes. Far too vulnerable, considering the circles she moved in. He remembered thinking that with a crook like J. Abernathy Jones for a father, she’d be in therapy before the year was out, if she wasn’t already.
Sarah Mariah Jones Sullivan, he mused now. Daughter of Senator J. Abernathy Jones, who had been reelected by the skin of his teeth shortly after their one and only meeting.
Wife—make that widow—of Junior Congressman Stanley Sullivan, the senator’s protégé and handpicked puppet. Despite his reputation as a latter-day John Kennedy, the jerk had been nothing more than a dirty, womanizing lightweight who had barely managed to escape the tail end of the scandals that had put an end to his father-in-law’s career, if not to his ambitions.
As it turned out, Rocky had been back in the States after a stint in Kosovo when Sullivan had gone down in flames. Still immersed in his own private, personal immolation, he had not joined the pack, choosing instead to watch the coverage from the privacy of his barren apartment. Looking calm, pale and emotionless, Sarah Mariah had been there each day beside her husband and his lawyers. Comparing the grown-up woman to the teenage girl he remembered, he couldn’t help but wonder how much it was costing her. God knows, she must have already suffered enough when her father’s sins had come home to roost.
Under the most trying circumstances imaginable for any sensitive young woman, she had never, to his knowledge, lost her dignity. Rocky watched as day after day she’d be caught outside and surrounded before she could escape. Head held high, she would face down her tormentors with that same disconcertingly direct gaze he remembered.
“Miz Sullivan, did you know at the time…?”
“No comment.”
“Mrs. Sullivan, is it true that you’ve already filed for divorce?”
“No comment.”
“Hey, Sarah, is it true
