Brazen Virtue

he’d tapped into his mother’s personal checking account. It had been so easy to take what he needed, and so much more rewarding than asking for it. He’d tapped into other accounts, but he’d soon tired of the money.
    It was then he’d discovered the phone, and how exciting it could be to listen to other people. Like a ghost. The Fantasy line had been an accident at first. But soon it was all he cared about.
    He couldn’t stop, not until he’d found the next, not until he’d found the voice that could soothe the pounding in his head. But he had to be careful.
    He knew his mother was a fool, but his father … if his father noticed anything, there’d be questions. Thinking of it, Jerald took a pill, then two. Though he preferred amphetamines to barbiturates, he wanted to sleep that night, and dreamlessly. He knew just how clever his father was.

    He’d put his talent to use for years in court before he’d made the almost seamless switch to politics. From Congress to the Senate, Charlton P. Hayden had earned a reputation for power and intelligence. His image was that of a wealthy, privileged man who understood the needs of the masses, who fought for lost causes and won. A paragon, without a shadow to smear his reputation. No, his father had always been a very careful man, a very dedicated man, a very clever man.
    Jerald had no doubt that when election year was over, when the votes were tallied and the last of the confetti swept up, his father would be the youngest and most glamorous resident of the Oval Office since Kennedy.
    Charlton P. Hayden wouldn’t be pleased to learn that his only son, his heir apparent, had strangled one woman and was waiting for the opportunity to do so again.
    But Jerald knew himself to be very clever. No one would ever know that the son of the front-running candidate for president of the United States had a taste for murder. He knew if he could hide it from his father, he could hide it from anyone.
    So he sent the flowers, and he sat late at night in the dark, waiting for the right voice and the right words.
    T HANK YOU FOR COMING , Sister.” Grace knew it was foolish to feel odd about shaking a nun’s hand. It was simply that she couldn’t help remembering how many times her knuckles had been whacked by one with a ruler. And she couldn’t quite get used to the fact that they didn’t wear habits anymore. The nun who had introduced herself as Sister Alice wore a small silver crucifix with her conservative black suit and low-heeled pumps. But there was no wimple and robe.
    “All our prayers are with you and your family, Miss McCabe. In the few months I knew Kathleen, I came to respect her dedication and skill as a teacher.”

    Respect. The word came again as it had, in cold comfort, for an hour. No one spoke of affection or of friendship. “Thank you, Sister.”
    There were several members of the faculty as well as a handful of students in the church. Without them, the pews would have been all but empty. She’d had no one, Grace thought as she stationed herself in the rear, no one who hadn’t come out of a sense of duty or compassion.
    There were flowers. She looked at the baskets and wreaths in the nave. She wondered why she seemed to be the only one who found the colors obscene under the circumstances. Most were from California. A bunch of gladioluses and a formal card were apparently enough from the people who had once been a part of Kathleen’s life. Or of Mrs. Jonathan Breezewood’s life.
    Grace hated the smell of them, just as she hated the glossy white casket she’d refused to approach. She hated the music that flowed quietly down the aisle and knew she’d never be able to hear an organ again without thinking of death.
    These were the trappings the dead expected from the living. Or was it that the living expected them from the dead? She wasn’t sure of anything except that when her time came, there would be no ceremonies, no dirges, no friends and relatives staring teary-eyed down at what was left of her.
    “Grace.”
    She turned, hoping nothing showed on her face. “Jonathan. You came.”
    “Of course.” Unlike Grace, he looked down the aisle at the white casket and his former wife.
    “Still image-conscious, I see.”

    He noted the heads that turned at Grace’s statement but merely glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid I can only stay for the service. I have an appointment to speak with a Detective Jackson in an hour. Then I have to get to the