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Lobbying For Murder
A Maren Kane Mystery

by Kris Calvin

Ch. 1
Maren reached towards the barstool that served as a bedside table and fumbled for her cell phone to check the time, without success. So she pulled the covers up, deciding to risk an hour more of sleep, when it hit her.

Sacramento!

Given traffic on the drive from Pasadena to Bob Hope Airport, she prayed she had not overslept. Well, she swore and then prayed, not wanting to miss whatever might help her make her flight.

Showered and dressed, Maren paused in front of the hall mirror, considered brushing her hair, and thought better of it. Curly on a good day, frizzy on a bad one, a brush rarely helped. Passing on breakfast, she pulled on her beloved, red, Western boots and headed for the door.

A less than patient whine stopped her short, and Maren looked back to see Camper, her lab-pit bull mix, reminding her that while skipping breakfast might work for harried working girls, it was not acceptable for their canine housemates. Maren hurriedly scooped kibble into Camper’s bowl and promised her a more ceremonious dinner later.

Ch 2.

The flight to Sacramento, her third that month, was uneventful. Most people don’t like lobbyists, which is why Maren Kane didn’t call herself one, although that’s most of what she did as CEO at tiny Ecobabe, Inc, a California nonprofit focused on legislation to protect kids from environmental injury and death. In the cab ride into town, she extricated her ringing phone from her bag.

“Maren, it’s Sean. How are you, trip up ok?”

Maren was used to the casual style of young legislative staffers, who eschewed last names and spoke in near hip-hop cadence. Sean Verston had come up through the ranks of the prestigious Fellows intern program, and at 28 now served as the powerful Senator Rorie Rickman’s Chief of Staff.

“Yes, fine Sean. Are we set?” Maren figured the reason for his call might be cancellation of her meeting with Rickman, often the case with Legislators’ jammed schedules. She dearly hoped not.

“Sure, no worries, but the Senator is running late. Noon work instead?”

Maren was relieved, and assured Sean “Absolutely”, before losing the signal as the cab approached the Tower Bridge near the Capitol. Looking out the window at the four-lane bridge’s span, Maren reflected Only in Sacramento would they let residents vote on a bridge’s color. Gilded gold won, so it was painted yellow-brown, intended to look like gilded gold. But which looks like yellow-brown. She concluded that democracy worked better for some things than for others.

Ch 3.

“Noel Kemp here.”

Maren could picture her older brother as he spoke. 44 with wavy, sandy-colored hair, piercing blue eyes, a nice face and strong chin, but missing attractiveness due to an indefinable coldness that descended wherever he went. Not a Dementor-level chill, but enough to make people start looking for the exit and a warmer setting not long after Noel arrived.

“Noel, it’s Maren. I’m in Sacramento for the day. Sorry for not letting you know earlier. Turns out I have a break until 11, can you meet for coffee?” Meet for coffee was a euphemism since caffeine made both of them ill, one of the rare traits they shared. But meeting for herbal tea didn’t have the same punch to it.

“I can. I have to close out a program and the last coordinates are not lining up.” He paused before concluding, “22 minutes”.

“22 minutes it is, see you then”.

Café Trista, two blocks from the Capitol, was typical of the popular, casual eating spots in Sacramento. Comfortable without being cozy, with tables far enough apart to not be easily overheard, and ample lighting to see and be seen. Maren bought tea from the counter service and headed to one of the few remaining window tables to watch the parade of legislators and lobbyists go by. All were dressed in their Sacramento uniforms– dark suits, skirts and sensible pumps for women, and red or blue ties for men. Maren dressed that way when she first started coming to Sacramento years ago. But now in her trainings for up and coming lobbyists she encouraged them to find a unique look and stick with it, as she had done. Legislators might not remember Maren’s name, but when they saw her red boots they knew they could pick up on a conversation with her about children and the environment started months before.

As she turned back towards the counter to look for Noel, Maren saw Tamara Barnes with a group of friends. Tamara, like Sean Verston in Rickman’s office, had come to the Capitol as a Fellow, part of that elite core of handpicked young interns who were placed in politicians’ offices to learn the ropes and often went on to powerful political or bureaucratic careers. She was now a Legislative Aide in the Governor’s office.

Tamara had a classic Irish look, red hair that could never have come from a bottle, translucent skin peppered with barely-there freckles, and a lithe, dancer’s physique. It was rumored, bolstered by the new cars she drove each year, that she was a trust-fund baby who didn’t need a job, but chose public interest work for that rarest of reasons, a pure heart.

Tamara passed close by Maren, pausing to look for an open table. Maren was embarrassed to see an older guy, balding in the back and somewhat stooped in posture, casually place his hand on Tamara’s lower back, rubbing it softly. Tamara stepped away, but whether it was due to discomfort with his public display of affection or actual distaste, Maren wasn’t able to tell. The guy looked familiar to Maren, but she couldn’t place him. Before she could give it more thought, Noel arrived. Tamara’s group moved to a table at the far side of the room.

“Noel, it’s so great to see you!” Maren exclaimed as she rose and gave him a quick hug. Noel stood stiffly as she did so. She backed up a step, “Why don’t you get your tea? I’ll hold our table.” Noel turned towards the counter abruptly, as though directed by remote control rather than from a warm, sisterly suggestion.

Maren thought again how challenging it must be to be Noel. The way his brain worked certainly was not standard. She took in his appearance. The oversized, slouchy beige trench coat and strange 40s style fedora made him look like a wannabe FBI agent or flasher. And the cold climate he carried with him was having its effect, as people moved aside when he walked through and gave him more than ample space in the counter line.

Ch. 4

An unwritten rule in Sacramento is that legislators may be late or not show at all, but that those who come to see them shall not arrive a minute past the scheduled time. So Maren cursed under her breath as she hurried into Rickman’s office at five minutes past. And it didn’t matter that there was nothing she could have done about it or that it could have been much worse.

The security line to get into the Capitol building had been stalled by a group of young schoolchildren, several of whom were too excited to wait their turn and ran around the metal detector. Once through they could see the 800-pound bronze grizzly bear statue donated by Governor Schwarzenegger when he was in office, nicknamed “Bacteria Bear” from all the people petting it and sharing germs. The kids hurtled towards the big bear with no regard for the guards and teachers yelling at them. It was too late to move to the lobbyist-only entrance, so Maren feared she was stuck in the line until the children could be corralled and screened one at a time.

“Maren!”

Maren looked up and saw Tamara calling her from the other side of security, where she stood with a Capitol guard. Maren skirted the line and approached them.

“Ms. Kane, Ms. Barnes has asked that you be given priority entrance. May I see some identification?”

As Maren pulled out her ID, Tamara had already turned to leave. Anticipating Maren’s unspoken thank you, Tamara grinned and waved it off as she walked away, “No problem!”

The code of busy women, Maren thought, we stick together.

Ch. 5

Still, Maren didn’t quite make it.

“I’m so sorry to be late.”

Rickman’s receptionist appeared to be 12, but seemed to know the drill, and accepted Maren’s apology graciously. She took her Ecobabe business card, and began entering something on the screen. But whether it was Maren’s vitals or the girl’s Facebook update, she couldn’t tell.

California Senators’ personal offices are generally decent in size, with an imperial-looking desk, a sofa, a few comfortable chairs and a small, round, conference table. But the suite of offices each of them gets is often miniscule and misshapen. The increase in the number of staff per legislator since the days of the building’s design, with modern times yielding a Chief of Staff, Legislative Director, Receptionist, Scheduler and several interns means space for two is divided and subdivided again into space for six. And the reception area is like a Minnie Mouse version of the real thing—two little chairs, a tiny desk, and a candy bowl. Maybe that explains the 12-year-old looking receptionist, Maren smiled to herself, it’s a size issue?

But luckily, before Maren could get too claustrophobic, Sean came bounding out to greet her. Six foot two, at least. He looked like a ten-year old boy who had been blown up with helium to twice his size, but with no change to his child-like expression or demeanor.

“Maren, great! So good to see you.” Sean extended a handshake as he leaned in with a quick sideways hug, reminding Maren of the way high school boys embrace without touching sensitive body parts.

Sean and Maren had once swapped ancestry stories. Turns out Maren had a Dutch mom, Lithuanian dad, and Sean the reverse. Maren ended up with the turquoise blue eyes of many Dutch; Sean got his Lithuanian mother’s brown eyes, but with Dutch apple cheeks. He had a ready grin that looked like he could put his finger in the dike and stop the floods with ease.

“It’s nice to see you, too, “ Maren replied. She meant it. She had worked closely with Sean on a half dozen bills over the past six years, and he was as genuine as they got in the Capitol.

“The Senator is finishing up a few things, let’s talk outside until she calls.” “Outside” meant standing in the 4th floor hallway, as Sean plus Maren plus the receptionist were threatening to overwhelm the small reception space.

“Are we ready for the Tuesday Health Committee hearing on our cell phone bill?”

“Yes, I’ll be speaking, and an expert is coming up to talk about research that shows driving using a hands-free cell phone, per current California law, is no safer than driving while holding the phone. It’s the distraction from the road that matters. “

“Excellent. Any party issues?

“The Democrats are with us, haven’t heard from the Republican caucus yet.”
Sean’s phone vibrated and they were called inside.

Ch. 6

The meeting that had been delayed an hour and a half took ten minutes to complete.

“Maren, good of you to wait. Are we ready for Tuesday?”

Rorie Rickman, MD, the only physician in the Legislature, was in her sixties and her Southern California birthright showed. Tall, lean, with stylish, short blonde hair, she looked like a lifeguard that had aged well.

Maren was not surprised to get the same question from the Senator that Sean had posed; it was the reason Maren was there.

“Yes, I will testify, and health expert Dr. Maylor will address the new research. There is no organizational opposition on record yet.”

The conversation stalled for a moment since Rickman could not go to her usual close of asking about Maren’s spouse or partner (Maren had none), kids (none), grandkids (none). Personal connections were everything to a politician. If the Senator had known about Camper, she might have asked about Maren’s dog. But since she didn’t, Rickman rose and gave Maren her warmest smile. Maren was gathering her things about her on the sofa in preparation to rise and shake the Senator’s hand when she heard raised voices. A moment later the receptionist came in just ahead of Tamara Barnes, both looking flushed and upset.

“Senator, so sorry to disrupt the meeting, but Ms. Barnes…”

“That’s alright, Hannah. Tamara, what is it?” A visit from the Governor’s staff is rarely good news for a Legislator, but an unscheduled one is downright alarming.

“She’s here to see Sean.”

“That’s fine, Hannah, thank you. Sean, you and Ms. Barnes may use my office, I have to get to the floor.” Rickman walked out. After 14 years in office she knew that things between staff should stay between staff, no oversight needed.

But Maren was still seated, and could not quite pull herself together to exit as gracefully as Rickman had done. The look she saw on Tamara’s face was near desperate and Tamara seemed unaware that Maren remained.

“Sean, I need you to look at something for me. I can’t believe it. The Governor. It’s really too much to believe.” Tamara was trembling as she spoke, gripping a thin gold necklace she was wearing as though it would hold her together.

Sean took her by the arm to steer her to the sofa when he saw Maren was still there. She gave them both the most sympathetic look she could muster as she stood to go. Sean nodded slightly at her. Tamara seemed too much in the throes of her dismay to respond. As she left, Maren heard Tamara say, “I’ve done something awful, I didn’t know how awful, you need to come with me now, please.”

Ch. 7

Maren completed her scheduled visits with legislative offices to secure votes for the cell phone bill. She managed to get a leading Republican to overcome his concerns about restricting personal freedoms by sharing statistics on how many children die each year as a result of cell-phone distracted drivers. That was likely to put their bill in the win column, out of committee and on to the Senate floor.

Maren would have felt satisfied about a job well done, but Tamara’s words kept coming back to her, “I’ve done something awful, I didn’t know how awful…the Governor.” Whatever it was, Maren hoped Sean had it well in hand.

Once home, Maren changed into the soft, flannel pajama bottoms and old t-shirt she slept in. She checked her phone messages. There was one from Garrick Davis, insisting that they have the closure dinner he had been requesting for months. Maren had lived with Garrick, an economist at USC, briefly in his Hollywood Hills home until she was the inadvertent recipient of an anonymous fax sent to him at his home office. “I’m glad we did not sleep together yet, there is so much to look forward to…” signed with little x’s and o’s.

Garrick said the fax was not for him, that it was for his buddy, but for Maren it was one lame excuse too many. Plus, the bastard was cheap to the core. Despite having made millions in business investments, Garrick insisted that Maren reimburse him for postage stamps when she lived with him. The move in and out of his place had cost her plenty, having given up her home and having to find another at a bad time in the market, not to mention splitting food costs that included top-grade beef and the expensive vodka Garrick drank. She was still getting back on her feet financially. The only closure Maren thought Garrick Davis deserved was the door in his face, and that had happened.

No other messages on her machine. She let the lonely moment go, and made good on her morning promise to Camper for a better dinner, warming kibble with tomato sauce. Camper would eat anything that came with tomato sauce, peanut butter or oatmeal garnish. Come to think of it, Maren might too. Maybe that’s why they were such good housemates.

Maren had no TV, having given up cable in the latest round of economizing. Nearly everything was available online anyway. She settled into the oversized, soft sofa with her laptop, Camper at her feet and checked her emails. Her computer was nearly eight years old, ancient and slow, but it managed to meet her needs. She had over 300 new and unread emails, about par for her daily inbox. She deleted a few–ads for dates over 40 and a “free” cell phone from senrabyllit@timenow.com. Never heard of them, another scam, she thought, frustrated.

She was about to pull up the latest Daily Show when an email subject line stopped her. STAFF ON STAFF MURDER. Maren opened the bulletin from The Bee, the Sacramento daily newspaper: “Breaking News: Tamara Barnes, Senior Aide to Governor Roger Hernandez, was found stabbed to death tonight on the floor of a Capitol restroom. Taken into custody and accused of the crime is Senator Rickman’s Chief of Staff, Sean Verston. The two were in the prestigious Fellows program together.”

Maren covered her face with both hands and stopped breathing. She was sure of it, she just stopped. Finally, she looked up, tried for an intake of air, and read the piece again. The words hadn’t changed. But they could not be right. Maren knew Sean, she knew a terrible mistake had been made and that he was no killer.

to be continued…

(July 2011 All Rights reserved.)