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It was a relief to land and leave the compact jet. She plastered on a smile for the crowd that had gathered to meet them. Her smile dissipated, however, when she spotted Van Lovejoy among the press photographers. He turned up everywhere Tate Rutledge went these days. His presence never failed to unnerve Avery.
As soon as it was feasible, she stepped into the background, where it would be harder for the lens of a camera to find her. From that vantage point, she looked out over the crowd, constantly on the alert for anyone looking suspicious. This crowd was largely comprised of media, Rutledge supporters, and curious onlookers.
A tall man standing at the back of the crowd arrested her attention, only because he looked familiar. He was dressed in a tailored western suit and cowboy hat, and she first took him for one of the oil men Tate was there to address.
She couldn’t pinpoint where or when she had seen him before, but she didn’t think he’d been dressed as he was now. She would have remembered the cowboy hat. But she had seen him recently, she was sure of that. The barbecue in Houston, perhaps? Before she could cite the time and place, he faded into the throng and was lost from sight.
Avery was hustled toward the waiting limousine. At her side, the mayor’s wife was gushing like a fountain. She tried to pay attention to what the other woman was saying, but her mind had been diverted by the gray-haired man who had so adroitly disappeared an instant after they’d made eye contact.
* * *
As soon as the immediate area was cleared of the senatorial candidate, his entourage, and the media jackals, the well-dressed cowboy emerged from the telephone cubicle. Tate Rutledge was an easy target to follow through the airport. They were both tall, but while Tate wanted to be seen, the cowboy prided himself on hi
s ability to merge into a crowd and remain virtually invisible.
For such a large man, he moved with grace and ease. His carriage alone commanded respect from anyone who happened to fall into his path. At the car rental office, the clerk was exceptionally polite. His bearing seemed to demand good service. He laid down a credit card. It had a false name on it, but it cleared the electronic check system it was run through.
He thanked the clerk as she dropped the tagged key into his hand. “Do you need a map of the area, sir?”
“No, thank you. I know where I’m going.”
He carried his clothes in one bag, packed efficiently and economically. The contents were untraceable and disposable; so was the rented sedan, if that became necessary.
The airport was located midway between Midland and Odessa. He headed toward the westernmost city, following the limousine carrying Rutledge at a safe, discreet distance.
He mustn’t get too close. He was almost certain Carole Rutledge had picked him out of the crowd while her husband was shaking hands with his local supporters. It was unlikely that she had recognized him from that distance, but in his business, nothing could be taken for granted.
Twenty-Eight
A king-size bed.
“I don’t envy the women of Texas. Like the women of every state in this nation, they’re faced with serious problems—problems that require immediate solutions. Daily solutions. Problems such as quality child care.”
Even as Tate waxed eloquent at a luncheon meeting of professional women, his mind was on that one large bed in the room at the Adolphus Hotel.
After landing at Love Field, they had rushed to check in, freshen up, and make the luncheon on time. The hectic schedule hadn’t dimmed his one prevalent thought: tonight he would be sharing a bed with Carole.
“Some corporations, many of which I’m pleased to say are located here in Dallas, have started day-care programs for their employees. But these companies with vision and innovative ideas are still in the minority. I want to see something done about that.”
Over the applause, Tate was hearing in his mind the accommodating bellman ask, “Will there be anything else, Mr. Rutledge?”
That’s when he should have said, “Yes. I’d prefer a room with separate beds.”
The applause died down. Tate covered his extended pause by taking a sip of water. From the corner of his eye, he could see Carole looking up at him curiously from her place at the head table. She looked more tempting than the rich dessert he had declined following lunch. He would decline her, too.
“Equal pay for equal work is a tired subject,” he said into the microphone. “The American public is weary of hearing about it. But I’m going to keep harping on it until those who are opposed to it are worn down. Obliterated. Banished.”
The applause was thunderous. Tate smiled disarmingly and tried to avoid looking up the skirt of the woman in the front row who was offering him a spectacular view.
While they had scrambled to get ready in the limited time allowed, he’d caught an accidental glimpse of his wife through a crack in the partially opened bathroom door.
She was wearing a pastel brassiere. Pastel hosiery. Pastel garter belt. She had a saucy ass. Soft thighs.
She had leaned into the mirror and dusted her nose with a powder puff. He’d gotten stiff and had stayed that way through the wilted salad, mystery meat, and cold green beans.
Clearing his throat now, he said, “The crimes against women are of major concern to me. The number of rapes is increasing each year, but the number of offenders who are prosecuted and brought to trial is lamentably low.
“Domestic violence has been around as long as there have been families. Thankfully, this outrage has finally come to the conscience of our society. That’s good. But is enough being done to reverse this rising trend?
