Earlier: Rutger Kamen dies. Ambrose gives up alcohol and accepts the help from seasoned detective Fergus Ryan to investigate Josh Marley and the circumstances leading to Vegeta's shooting. Vegeta, who lived through his ordeal, still has a long recovery ahead and remains in the hospital. Bulma ultimately decides to end her campaign, endorsing another candidate, after the threat of blackmail against her and Vegeta ends. The couple happily marry.

Rutger Kamen's widow Therese paved the way for Bulma and Vegeta's marriage.

"Well now it all makes sense. Of course. Rutger would marry a spook."

She didn't have to help, and she surely understood that Ambrose would share – or want to share – the details with others about her unexpected request to meet. But Ambrose was sensible – he knew the stakes - and a man of his word, so the secrecy of all topics discussed could be negotiable despite Therese's evident advantage.

"Are you asking - quite crudely, I must say - whether I'm CIA, Mr. Boone?"

Neither carried mobile phones. Trust had a baseline. Either could be wearing surveillance devices. Ideally, that mutual knowledge would uphold honesty and keep their chat focused. Of all places, Therese wanted to meet at a Swiss café in downtown Chicago – a stark contrast to Rutger's almost paranoid level of privacy in Jefferson City. After pleasantries, they continued coffee quaffing at a park.

"I'm assuming you must ex-CIA by now, actually, Mrs. Kamen."

Therese's arm extended across the park bench frame with a ballerina's elegance, brushing across Ambrose's back. "Perhaps we'll both use each other's first names by the time were done here."

"I doubt if I'll see you again – even if I attempted to."

"You know, I grew up just like you and Governor Brief – a Midwesterner. Doesn't matter where I am in the world, I can always pick out people who come from this part of the country."

Ambrose lit Therese's cigarette, observing her grey bedroom eyes. They had some life in them, complementing her curly, shoulder-length brunette hair and milky skin. "And yet you married a sociopathic New England Brahmin who spent too much on clothing. Go figure."

"Rutger treated me like an empress."

Ambrose cut the tip of his cigar, raising his eyebrow. "While occasionally destroying others' livelihoods – occasionally. The fiction that helps you sleep at night must be the next best thing to taking barbiturates."

Therese, unaffected by his riposte, threw the last crumbs of a cookie to a couple of prancing pigeons. "Rutger taught you a lot too, before and after you became lovers, so I would tone down that judgment."

"I flourished in my own right when I was younger," Ambrose replied, "and if you think I'm embarrassed that he told you about us, think again. Rutger narcissistcally thought of me as one of his success stories, trumping all else. At this point, I don't… have much to lose anymore anyway, except my daughter and her mother."

Therese held the cigarette away from her lips. "Your friendship with Governor Brief, perhaps? I'm sure you were terrified that those files about the man who was shot would destroy your relationship."

Ambrose's nostrils flared. "That man's name is Vegeta."

"Surely, an ex-prosecutor like Ms. Brief would understand grudges. Sometimes we don't know whom we offend, Mr. Boone, even while living in flyover country."

Ambrose appeared unflappable, but Therese's espionage math didn't add up. "Bulma has hurt no one. I've seen worse from others across my career. That said, I'm surprised Rutger told you this much. If he treated you like an empress, then I would assume he'd try to protect you from some kind of grand intrigue."

Therese opened a silver cigarette case with engraved husband's initials. "Don't worry about those files any longer. The digital ones you possess have already degraded, right?"

Ambrose wouldn't answer that question. "Why should I trust anything you say - and why all of this drama?"

Therese's manicured fingers intertwined. "Rutger wasn't playing both sides as much as you may believe. I am not fulfilling my husband's wishes because…we once had others stand in the way of our happiness too. I also want no connection whatsoever to the near death of Vegeta. My life in Switzerland suits me."

Then, a particular answer dawned on Ambrose. "Rutger must not have obtained those files from his own sources. You got them, suggesting communications overlap between government agencies, perhaps?"

"I don't have time for conspiracy theories," Therese said sharply, removing a postcard-size envelope from her purse. "Accept the courtesy and leave it there. To confirm my sincerity, here's a key and instructions that only you will understand and know what to do with. My life will become much more difficult if you believe I've double-crossed you. I… trust you'll be careful before making any hasty decisions."

Again, Ambrose had to trust his intuition. Whatever sadness he suspected she felt didn't show. "How difficult, Therese?"

She smiled. "People loving reading true crime for a reason, Ambrose."

Bulma's final White Hawthorn Charity Ball as governor was sold out. Her pleasure at being uninvolved in the December fundraiser's preparations showed. The planning committee chose Beau Yardley to emcee and invited Hollywood stars and famous musicians from Missouri to attend the event at Kansas City's refurbished Fountain City train station. Thousands of dollars were raised each year for children's programs and services for people with disabilities.

Bulla had been fitted for a tasteful satin gown, chosen by her conservative aunt, who stayed in Kentucky instead of attending. Tarble and Bulma plotted to have Carl, the boy who liked Bulla, to join them. Tarble chose to be the bad guy, telling his brother that upstanding teenager was sweet on their "princess."

"I've met Carl," Vegeta said blandly, moving into a reclining chair. "Seems nice, but Bulla is too young to be alone there with a boy. Charity or not, too much drinking and lots of hook-up sex happen at that ball, from what I know. I can't escort Bulla, so that leaves you."

"You could still attend. Betcha your special ladies would be overjoyed."

"Tarble, I may be a hermit crab and don't care much for these kinds of events, but have some faith in me. Of course I want to be with them, but Bulma and I agreed that I shouldn't attend. It's bad enough I can't at dance once with her or my daughter. All this scheming and my wife missed telling you that?"

"No, she told me," Tarble said. "I just don't agree with either of you, Vegeta. You're staying longer at the store now. Working out and physical therapy are going well. You certainly look a hell of a lot stronger than me."

"When I'm not in pain or having spasms. Until my next surgery, that's my life. I want to walk almost as well as I did before… so I can stand with Bulma during her last speech at the Capitol next year."

"Fine. I'll remove myself from your medieval marital agreements. Regarding my niece, you don't have a leg to stand on – figuratively, that is."

"Only you can get away with saying that without having your teeth broken," Vegeta replied as they laughed together. "You little shit. I can still kick your ass from here to Utah."

"And you just married your childhood sweetheart. Be glad that Rev. Brief didn't break your jaw and ankles when you were Bulla's age. You weren't a virgin by then if I'm remembering correctly."

Vegeta pointed a rolled-up newspaper at him. "Here's my compromise: Carl and Bulla will return as soon as the dancing ends. You forfeit the luxury of an overnight hotel stay and ride back here. You will sit beside your niece and not sleep until she enters this house."

Bulma casually walked in, opening the vertical blinds facing the rear porch. "One would think your brother had served in the military with all those orders he's giving."

"Clearly," Tarble said, turning on the television. "What do you think, bumblebee?"

Bulma leaned over Vegeta, stroking his cheek before stealing a kiss. "Well, since we hatched this plot, I suppose her grouchy daddy gets the final say. I mean, the ball is next Saturday."

"Hn." Vegeta smacked her hip with his newspaper – after another kiss. "When Bulla graduates from high school, I'll rethink my military code of honor."

Everyone in the Rutledge family had become news junkies to some degree, but they could only stand but so much sensational – or contrived - TV drama. Tarble mistakenly turned on KIBZ in the middle of report about Bulma, discussing Hawthorn Ball's security - and, unfortunately, Vegeta's shooting. Marley had called into a midday talk show, discussing his plans to reshape the state's criminal justice system – though much differently from Bulma's reforms.

"I'm sure the governor and I will share ideas before she leaves office. Her husband's case remains unsolved. We both want a strong foundation for law and order across the state. Citizens depend on us."
"Law and order my ass!" Bulma fumed. "I am a fucking prosecutor. I sent real criminals to prison. If Josh had his way, low-level offenders' would rot in underground cages forever instead of being rehabilitated. Change the damn channel, Tarble."

"No," Vegeta said, touching his wife's hand. "It's all right. Assholes are going to asshole."

"Because that's what assholes do," Tarble chimed in.

Bulma had hoped for a politically stress-free Sunday. "Look, I…I need to get out for a while. Maybe take a walk."

Vegeta waited, nodding at Tarble to lead.

"Mind if I join you, sis? All that beautiful land y'all own back there should be used appropriately."

"Go get the right shoes," Bulma said, putting on her hoodie. "You know it'll be muddy. The pork roast I put in the smoker should be ready by the time we're back."

Vegeta held Bulma's arm after Tarble departed. "Bulma Jean, the law may never catch who did this to me. We must make peace with that together. If I almost murdered the governor's now-husband, I'd be halfway to the Pacific Ocean by now. However, Nappa says a couple hunting club fellas routinely ask about me when I'm not at the store - and say they're investigating leads."

Bulma laughed. "Oh for heaven's sake! Investigating leads? Nappa should politely ask them to stick with tracking deer and game birds."

"I passed that message along," Vegeta replied with reliably amusing snort. He also warned Nappa to let taxpayer-supported professionals handle the crime sleuthing. "Go on now. I hear Tarble's big feet coming for you."

The Jefferson City detective assigned to Vegeta's case also happened to be a former New York City police department trainee of then-NYPD detective Fergus Ryan. Out of professional courtesy, Ryan in his plainspoken way expressed "interest" in helping solve the crime. As expected, she didn't cut him a break, telling him not to get in the way. Naturally, Ryan took pride in her defensive response. He taught her properly - and knew she wouldn't stand in his way either. Taking an interest in the case suggested that his eyes were primed to catch bigger fish with resources she didn't have.

By the time December rolled in, the information Ryan finally confirmed about Josh Marley would ruin the sexually debauched, psychologically unstable man's political chances forever, likely landing him in prison and burdening him with lawsuits. But Ryan was in a race against time. Oodles of hush money had been paid over the years to beautify Marley's reputation. Ambrose knew that years earlier but never got to the "Why?'. He didn't touch anything that couldn't be verified.

Ryan, however, had discovered that at least two women Josh had connections with died by suicide. Though strong in the polls, Marley had become more volatile than those in his inner circle had chosen to acknowledge - except his father, who quietly seethed as his eldest son became a more of a liability.

By then, Ryan also believed Josh wasn't involved in planning Vegeta's shooting or even expected anything like that to happen. I've got him, but not in the way Ambrose hopes. Once I give this to city police, they'll likely have to bring in the FBI to nab that bastard on every charge.

His concerns about Vegeta and Bulma's safety were present, but with Bulma out of the gubernatorial race - and given their throng of protectors – he didn't overly worry. The security of Inez Johnston, the woman running in Bulma's place, caused more uneasiness. He canceled a meeting with Ambrose in Kansas City the morning prior to the White Hawthorn Ball, to chase other leads.

The old detective rarely let his guard down, but he wasn't perfect.

Bulma's feathered floor-length evening gown drew admirers from time she entered the Grand Hall. The sleeveless sequined top and her bobbed hair gave off black-and-white movie glamour. All smiles, Bulla waved exuberantly from a dinner table near the dais. Gure had chosen the right kind of dress, Bulma thought. Carl, a brown-haired teen with attractive green eyes, tugged at his collar uneasily as she approached. Tarble stood, kissing her hands.

Bulma grasped Bulla's fingers. "Everyone all right? My speech is short, and I told Beau to keep the program moving so everyone can have more fun tonight. Bulla, you look outstanding! I want pictures for your father. Your parents too, Carl. My goodness! That suit is fantastic on you!"

Carl smiled shyly. "Thank…thank you, governor. I appreciate you and Mr. Rutledge for allowing me to come tonight."

True to her promise, Bulma's speech didn't take long. She thanked friends, charity organizers as well as members of the General Assembly, saving the most heartfelt dedication for her family. She became emotional but stayed composed when Beau's supportive arm moved over her shoulder.

"You are family too," she whispered. "You helped Vegeta's spirits so much. So much. Thank you."

Beau smiled. "He rightfully claimed the most vivacious star in the sky. I'm happy for you both."

The floor filled with people ready to boogie as orchestra players took their places. Tarble asked for Bulla for the first dance before elegantly handing her over to Carl. Bulma mingled, shaking hands, with including those who weren't fond of her but still respected her service. She took a lenghty sip from her champaign flute, maintaining confident eye contact as Josh slinked through the crowd. Shaking his sweaty palm felt gross, almost as much as tolerating his simpering.

"Your speech touched many hearts tonight, governor, including mine."

This may require another a glass of champagne to endure. She promptly took another glass flute as a drink server walked by them. "Thank you, Josh."

"How is your husband getting on?"

"It's day to day, but he's tough and determined."

"So... I understand you're splitting time between the mansion and his home?"

Bulma didn't dignify the question with an answer. Marley knew the governor's mansion was under renovation, making it difficult to navigate, especially for anyone with a physical disability. Bulma didn't want to hand him fodder a TV interview about "the proper use of taxpayer dollars." She waved vigorously at a college classmate, Charlotte "Chi Chi" Wilson, a six-foot-tall, no-nonsense British professor, who had her husband, Harry, in tow.

"Josh, please excuse me. I need to speak with some old friends."

"Of course, governor. I won't keep you." His eyes darkened as Bulma eagerly embraced her good luck.

"Is that the degenerate knob you and Chi Chi discussed earlier?" Harry asked cheerily. "Marley?"

"Unfortunately," Bulma replied, "but he won't be my problem much longer. Please continue to enjoy yourselves. I'm so excited that you're driving to Jeff City to stay with us a few days!"

"Are you sure Vegeta is comfortable with our stay?" Chi Chi asked. "We are flexible."

"My husband isn't shy about leaving when he needs space. Our home is large enough for that luxury. Plus, I suspect he might approve of your acidic tongue. It has aged like fine wine."

"Lovely!" Catherine said, holding Bulma's hands in a prayer position.

"Chi Chi, I have an early breakfast with some state bar association colleagues, so I'm retiring to my room soon. Still have to make sure I see a few more people, though. Rest well tonight."

"Yes, of course," George said. "Cheers!"

Bulma felt reasonably safe. Security detail, both undercover and uniformed, were everywhere to safeguard the premises for all attendees staying overnight. The men escorting Bulma to her hotel suite through a skywalk were built like football quarterbacks. She wouldn't miss this part of being governor. Her first years in office had much more freedom of movement, along with the state police. After conspiracists and the rowdies began to cause more trouble, harrassing Inez's supporters, combined with the murkiness of Vegeta's shooting, she felt her world had narrowed. Happiness with her new family helped, though more anxiety about Vegeta crept through her mind. His gradual return to work triggered fear for him that she hadn't dealt with. The fear angered her most. She held herself to a higher standard than Vegeta would ever expect. But she still had to finish her term in office and support Inez for the next ten months, through the election.

Before leaving the Grand Hall, a server handed her the last glass of lemon water on a tray. Bulma acknowledged the smiling man but hadn't paid much attention to his face. A rapid surge of exhaustion hit on her way to the room. Noticing her slowing pace, both guards asked if they could help with anything else. Blaming her tiredness on around-the-clock events, Bulma thanked them and closed the door, briefly resting on it. Her body weirdly shifted between warmth and chills.

The suite was almost pitch black, which was unusual. Hotel staff usually turned on a cluster of lights at night before guests returned at bedtime. Feeling dizzy and extremely lightheaded, she staggered toward the bed with her purse. Garbled words trickled from her lips as a dim ceiling light switched on. The thin, black-clothed man rubbing his swollen penis near the closet enjoyed observing the high-and-mighty, sententious Bulma Jean Brief stripped of her faculties and power. He caught her before she fell on the bed, activating a video camera on her phone after her purse dropped.

After licking her neck, he tipped Bulma's head back, dropping a speck of powder into a nostril. This new drug, mixed with the other, ensured she wouldn't resist his intent to violate her. He wanted to take his time, though. Raping her from the beginning seemed… barbarian to this barbarian. He wore black-and-white makeup, resembling a Guy Fawkes mask. His contemptuous laughter increased as Bulma succumbed to the drugs' all-consuming high. Her eyesight seemed to be drenched with a strange pinwheel of colors. She smiled drunkenly, feeling unconstrained, but not knowing who or where she was – or with whom - anymore.

Pleased, the man placed her arms over his shoulders, panting and kissing her zealously as if they were long-lost lovers. His bare penis rubbed on her beautiful dress, fouling it with wet, pasty drops. Pinning her against the wall had its benefits, he thought. After removing her dress skirt, the man moistened his lips. He would leave her slip on while they were together. She looked prettier in it.

He smirked, battling the craving to drive his teeth clean through her neck.

Can't leave DNA just anywhere for the cops to find.