Bloody Politics (10 page)

I noticed experienced server Aggie glance my way, then scurry down the hallway toward me. I met her halfway, not wanting her to take time away from the senator's guests.

“It's good to see you again, Aggie. The senator's hiatus from entertaining gave you folks some evenings off, I imagine.”

“Well, we missed you, too, Molly,” Aggie said with her warm smile, her gray eyes twinkling. “I hope you enjoyed the time off as well.”

I could tell from the twinkle in her eye that she'd been talking to Luisa, so I willingly played along. “As a matter of fact, I have. As I'm sure Luisa has kept you all informed.” Wagging my head dramatically, I added, “Such a bunch of busybodies and gossips.”

“Washington runs on gossip, Molly,” Aggie said with a grin as she headed down the side hallway to the kitchen.

“Well, you'd better get back in there and learn more,” I said as she turned the corner. I walked toward the main hallway. Casey strolled over my way, doing his usual security monitoring of attending guests.

“Luisa is certainly happy tonight,” he said with a smile. “But I imagine you're counting up the dollars as you watch all this.”

“Oh, yes. Accountants can't help it. It's the way we're wired. We're always thinking about the money.” I raised my glass. “But Luisa is in hog heaven. She hasn't stopped smiling all day, I swear.”

“Oh, yeah. Even Albert looks happier.”

“They were both bored. I'm afraid they've gotten addicted to those early months of the senator entertaining everyone in Congress.”

Casey's smile vanished and he looked at me. “You still look like you're worrying about something. Maybe it's my imagination, but ever since Natasha Jorgensen was murdered you've been … preoccupied, I guess. Maybe it's my imagination.”

Casey had good instincts. “No, it's not your imagination; I have been preoccupied. I've been asking a lot of questions and talking to different people, and I've started to make some connections.”

He peered at me. “What kinds of connections? Are you talking about Natasha's murder?”

“Yes. Ever since you told me the cops found a bug on Natasha's phone, I started to get suspicious. If someone had been listening in on her calls, then they would have heard Congresswoman Wilson's call. They would have learned about Quentin Wilson's notebook. Heard the names of a prominent congressman and a senator mentioned. And they would have heard my call with Natasha. Heard me ask her for a copy of any notes she took. And they would have heard us make plans to meet that Thursday morning on the Canal towpath.”

I watched Casey's intent gaze deepen on me as I spoke. Clearly he was making the same connections I had.

“Are you saying what I think you are?”

I nodded. “Yes, I am. I believe that Natasha's killer knew where to find her and when. She wasn't the victim of a random rapist lurking beneath the bridge but a planned attack.”

Casey's expression turned skeptical. “That's a helluva lot of speculation, Molly.”

“Maybe. But Natasha promised to give me a copy of her notes when we met that morning. And police said there was no paper found on her body. I think that's because the killer took it. Someone doesn't want those prominent names spread around.”

“Then why kill her? He could have just mugged her. Stole the paper and her phone.”

“Maybe she was killed to silence her. To keep her from giving information to anyone else.”

Casey didn't answer right away; he just stared at me, clearly skeptical. “I don't know. It sounds like too much speculation to me.”

“I realize that. That's why I'm still asking questions.”

Albert waved at us from the kitchen hallway. Casey started to move away. “We'll talk some more about this.”

I turned back to Senator Russell's reception. I had no doubt Casey and I would have this conversation again.

eleven

Friday

“Hey, I wasn't expecting
to see you this morning,” Raymond said as Trask walked down the hallway of his office. He couldn't help noticing the familiar takeout bag with the golden arches symbol in Trask's hand, coffee in the other.

“Yeah, the Wade woman is settled in at her office and won't reappear until after five, so I thought I'd come over and check on Malone. I also stopped by to pick up some fast food.” Trask gave him a crooked smile.

“You read my mind,” Raymond said as he accepted the takeout bag and coffee. He could smell the breakfast sandwich inside, and his stomach growled. “Thanks for this. I didn't have any breakfast.”

“I figured.” Trask took a drink from his takeout cup and settled into the chair beside Raymond at the long table with the video monitor screen. “Actually, I was hoping to get a better look at Malone's boyfriend. I only got a glimpse of him in August before I left for Europe.”

Raymond took a sip of the creamy hot liquid.
Damn, that felt good.
“Well, he has an erratic schedule. Sometimes he's here, other times he's not. When he's here, they go running early, then she heads for her office at Senator Russell's house. The guy comes and goes at different times. Some mornings he's already gone by the time I get in here. Other times, he leaves right after Malone. And when he leaves the house, he never looks toward the camera.”

Raymond sank his teeth into the breakfast sandwich. Sausage, egg, and melted cheese on an English muffin. He closed his eyes and savored. He'd forgotten how good these were. Greasy and delicious. You couldn't beat it.

Trask chuckled, watching him. “I would have brought two if I'd known you were that hungry.”

Raymond didn't answer because his mouth was full. He devoured the rest of the sandwich, then took a big drink of coffee. “He's here now because his car is in the driveway. The black Jag parked behind Malone's car.”

“Well, if we can get a good look at him, we can run a check. So, all we need … hey, isn't that him?”

Raymond glanced at the large monitor screen and spotted a man closing the front door to Malone's townhouse, then walking toward the driveway. “Well, I'll be damned. That's him, all right. Perfect timing, Trask.”

The man pulled a cell phone from inside his jacket and held it to his ear as he approached the car. Trask and Raymond both leaned forward over the table, closer to the video screen.

“That's it, slow down and answer the phone,” Raymond coached.

“Now turn around so we can get a good look at you,” Trask said as the man stood outside the car, still talking on the phone.

As if heeding their advice, the man turned and leaned against the car as he talked. “Perfect. Now let's take a closer look.” Raymond picked up the controls and began zooming in on the man as he stood talking. Every now and then, the man would turn slightly so he faced the cameras. “There you go. Just what we need.” Raymond clicked the camera twice.

“Son of a bitch!”

Raymond turned to see Trask sitting bolt upright, his face contorted with a grimace. He'd never seen that expression on Trask's normally icy, composed features before.

“What's the matter?” Raymond asked, surprised. “You know this guy or something?”

“Hell, yes,” Trask snarled.

“From the look on your face, I'm guessing you two were not best buddies.”

Trask stared at the screen, transfixed. “I was in his squad in the Marines. He's the sonofabitch that got me thrown out!
Motherf—”

Raymond watched as Trask let loose a stream of profanity aimed at the man on the video screen, who was still calmly talking on his cell phone in Malone's driveway. “What the hell happened?”

“He caught me taking money from another guy's gear and dragged me to the commander. They brought me up on charges. Sons-of-bitches gave me a dishonorable discharge and shipped me back home.”

Raymond heard no emotion in his voice, but the rest of Trask fairly radiated with rage. Suppressed rage. “That's ancient history, Trask. We all have people that have screwed us in the past. We move on.”

Trask didn't answer, he simply kept staring at the screen, while muscles in his jaw twitched with the obvious effort to hold back whatever response he wanted to give. Raymond watched him carefully, then pulled the open laptop computer toward him and clicked onto several different screens, opening files. Finally, he found the one he wanted.

“Okay, what's that guy's name? Do you remember? Let's see if this is a case of mistaken identity.”

“DiMateo. Daniel DiMateo,” Trask said in a low voice, still staring at the screen. The man opened the door to his car, got in, and proceeded to back out of the driveway. Within a minute, the car had disappeared from the video surveillance screen.

Raymond read the document file he'd opened on the screen. “Bingo. Looks like that's your old Marine buddy. Daniel DiMateo. 4567 Quinn Street, Arlington, Virginia. Probably one of those high-rent condos overlooking the Potomac near Rosslyn, so I'll bet your boy stayed in full-time, then retired. Probably been consulting since then. That's my guess.”

Trask didn't say anything; he simply stared at the screen, even though the object of his fascination was gone. Raymond observed him carefully. He'd never seen Trask lose his cool over anyone or anything. He was the consummate professional, which was exactly what Raymond needed. So, this change in Trask's temperament was disconcerting. And, worrisome.

“Do you have any idea where else this DiMateo served?”

Finally, Trask broke his trancelike stare at the video screen and turned to face Raymond. His expression had just about returned to its normal emotionless mask. Almost.

“I heard he got into Special Forces. That's all I know.”

“Interesting. Did you ever hear anything about him or catch a glimpse when you were a mercenary years ago? I always tried to stay clear of those guys whenever I was doing work for hire.”

Trask shook his head, then sipped his coffee. “Nope. Never did.”

“Okay, let's see what we can find out about this guy. We were only occasionally checking on Malone back in August. We'd gotten the official ‘hands off' so I didn't pay much attention. She and her boyfriend were just doing their thing.”

“Okay, let me know what you find. Meanwhile, I'm going to check around Loretta Wade's neighborhood. Take a look at Gonzaga. I went there for a basketball game once. I'll see what info I can get on her kid too. All that preliminary info about her is pretty clean. Let's see if there's any dirt hiding.” Trask quickly rose from the chair and started for the hallway, then looked back at Raymond. “Why don't you get outside in the sun this weekend? It would do you good.”

Curious at Trask's comment, Raymond retorted, “I'm afraid of getting skin cancer,” he said with a wry smile.

Trask's lips twisted slightly. “Suit yourself. Email me whatever you find on DiMateo, okay?”

“Sure thing. Listen, Trask. Why don't you take your boat out this weekend? Go for a sail. Relax. You've earned it.”

Trask slipped his shades from his jacket pocket. “I'll think about it.” Then he was down the hallway and gone.

Raymond stared after him. He had a bad feeling.

_____

I tabbed from column to column in Peter Brewster's rental property spreadsheet. Another hour and Danny would pick me up for dinner. Tonight, we'd be heading downtown to a favorite steakhouse and grill. It was hard to go wrong with steak.

My personal cell phone came alive with a mellower sound. “Desperado” played for a minute before I answered. Loretta Wade's name flashed on the screen.

“Hey, Loretta, how's that puzzle solving going?”

“Actually, it's kept my sanity several times these last couple of days. I tell you, supervising people is the most frustrating part of my job. I swear, some of these folks are gonna put me in an early grave.”

I laughed softly as I relaxed into my desk chair, coffee mug in hand. “Well, I'm glad taciturn Eric Grayson could rescue you from aggravation.”

“Escaping into his notes was a lifeline. The man was so organized and methodical. The subject matter was as dry as you predicted. I wish I could tell you I had some great revelations while going through his notebook, but I didn't. I did, however, get an idea what that word meant that Grayson had indicated so many times in his notes. You know,
geo.
Something about that word buzzed in the back of my head until it finally came to me. It might have been an abbreviation for ‘George.' George Trudeau was a senior researcher during the time when Grayson was doing his research. I saw Eric Grayson and George talking together many times during those months. I worked with George when I first moved into this division. He was a role model, of sorts. Super smart, and a brain that was greased lightning. He had so many facts and figures at his command, it was formidable. So, I think George Trudeau must have been the senior researcher helping Eric Grayson; that's why the abbreviation for his name was written down.”

I sipped my coffee, considering what Loretta had said. “That kind of makes sense. Geo was an abbreviation. But why would Eric Grayson write that guy's name over and over so many times? It's not like he was going to forget who he was.”

“Yeah, I wondered about that too. But I didn't come up with any answers. I guess you could always ask the man himself. I checked and George Trudeau lives over in Arlington, near Ballston. He retired a few years ago. Had a big retirement party too. He didn't have any family as I recall. You could probably call him. See if he remembers working with Grayson. I can email you his phone number. I corroborated his number with the public directory.”

“Do you think he'd mind if I called? I mean, I'm a stranger. I didn't work with him or anything.”

“He'd probably enjoy it. Old researchers love nothing more than talking about it. So, he might welcome it. Give it a try, Molly. I'd be curious to know too. Tell him I sent you. I think he liked me. At least he never scowled at me or anything.” She chuckled.

“Okay, I'll give it a try after this weekend. I think Danny and I are going to finally get away into the Blue Ridge and see some leaves and relax.”

“Sounds great. I'll be sitting on gym bleachers. Basketball season is starting in a month and practice has already begun. They'll be doing some preseason games with other schools too.”

“You go, Mom. That brings back memories. Those gym bleachers are hard.”

“Let me know if you talk with old George, okay? By the way, I took a look at those other names you gave me. I've found some things, but I don't really want to talk about these folks over the phone. You know what I mean?”

That caught my attention. “I know exactly what you mean. Maybe we should meet for a pub dinner. When are you free?”

“Let's meet after the weekend, like Monday night around six thirty, after I get dinner for my son and he starts his homework. There's another Irish pub on the opposite section of Eighth Avenue. Right across from Barracks Row. Let's meet there, okay? I'll email George's phone number later. I've got to hang up now. Two calls are waiting.”

“Sounds good, I'll see you then,” I said, then clicked off. I'd let Danny know he'd be on his own for dinner that night. Whatever Loretta found must have been important.