Bloody Politics (18 page)

“I thought it only fair, considering it was Quentin's notes that provided clues to help Loretta unravel the puzzle.” I took another fruity sip. “Without Loretta's digging into Eric's and Quentin's information, we wouldn't have discovered anything. And Loretta led me to the retired researcher Eric used years ago. He'd been keeping Eric's detailed research information on a disc all these years. That was a gold mine.”

“What do you think Sylvia Wilson will do? Will she jump into all of this?”

“I'm hoping she will. She's a pit bull. We've seen that already. And she's hungry enough to want to make a name for herself.”

“True enough.”

“I told her as the widow of an idealistic young congressman who wanted to expose corruption, she had more reason than most to raise questions about abuses of power. So, let's see what she does.”

Samantha stared into her wineglass. “Talk about politics making strange bedfellows. I trust my name never came up.”

“No. I promised you that. She did ask how I knew that Quentin had overheard Ryker and Holmberg talking.”

Samantha closed her eyes. “I knew it.”

“I told her my source was completely reliable but confidential, and I wasn't at liberty to reveal it. Sylvia smiled just a little and said she understood.”

“You're kidding!” Samantha looked shocked.

“No, I'm serious. I think it's over. The Widow Wilson has seen what happens when she's on the bad side of the press, and I don't think she's going there again. Besides, I gave her the chance to curry favor with the press. Far better to help bring down the powerful.” I grinned.

Suddenly I heard Luisa's voice calling my name. I leaned out of the gazebo. “Hey, Luisa! Is there a call for me?”

“No, no. It's that congresswoman on TV.” She beckoned from the garden steps. “You're going to want to see this!”

Samantha and I looked at each other.
Congresswoman
. We bolted from the gazebo and into the mansion. Luisa beckoned to us from the kitchen as we sped down the hallway, laughing as we ran.

“She's talking now. See!” Luisa pointed toward the television screen located on the kitchen counter.

Sure enough, there was newly appointed Congresswoman Sylvia Wilson, in a drop-dead gorgeous crimson-red suit, hair and makeup perfect, looking straight into the camera.

“Naturally, I was curious what my late husband's notes meant when I found them. I could not understand why he would research topics like international banking regulations. His committee assignments had nothing to do with financial matters. But after watching recent news broadcasts, I realized I had to speak out. You see, my husband Quentin had also written the names of Congressman Ryker and Senator Dunston in his notebook.”

She held up Quentin Wilson's spiral notebook, and the press erupted in a raucous chorus of shouted questions and demands. Cameras pushed forward, zeroing in on the now-notorious notebook.

“You go, girl,” I said, laughing softly.

Samantha wagged her head slowly as she smiled. “I'll be damned. Quentin must be laughing his ass off, wherever he is.”

Shouts of “Congresswoman!” “What did he know?” “Did he tell you?” clogged the air.

“Quentin never mentioned this subject to me before he died. But I have the feeling my husband overheard a conversation or accidentally learned something that was not intended for him. And these notes were his attempt to reveal it. Quentin was an honorable man and spent his entire career as a district attorney fighting corruption. Unfortunately, he died before he could bring this information to light.”

This time the press shouts were deafening. Shouts of “Was his death an accident?
Congresswoman!
Did someone kill your husband to shut him up!”

I stared at the chaotic televised eruption. “Whoa …”

“Good God,” Samantha breathed.

Luisa stared at the television, clearly shocked. Then crossed herself.

A young man stepped in front of the congresswoman and waved his arms. “No more, please! Congresswoman Wilson has a meeting. She has nothing else to say at this time.”

He took Sylvia Wilson by the arm while others I figured were staffers surrounded her as he escorted her out of camera range and away from the baying hounds.

Samantha and I simply looked at each other solemnly for a minute. Finally, my dearest friend spoke. “It looks like she took your advice, Molly. Talk about bringing down the powerful.”

“Brilliant. Simply brilliant,” I said, letting admiration fill my voice. It was even better than I'd hoped.

Friday afternoon

My cell phone flashed beside my elbow and I clicked on before the music started. Danny's name. “Hey, there. Thanks to Samantha, I've been catching up on the news coverage. Watching Ryker try to fight his way through those gangs of reporters everywhere he goes just makes my day. Of course, Sylvia Wilson's performance was the
pi
è
ce de r
é
sistance
. Masterful.”

Danny laughed. “I figured you'd enjoy all of it. Ryker's trying to stonewall reporters now, but that won't work. Listen, we've finally made a definitive match with the software. And it
is
the guy I remember from years ago. He hated my guts because I got him thrown out of the Corps. I caught him stealing money from another Marine's gear, and I brought him up on charges. He was out. Dishonorable discharge. He hated me, that's for sure. And he's the kind that would try to get even.”

“Really? After all this time?”

“Some guys never let go of a grudge. We traced him through every system, and he got hired on as a mercenary for some guerrilla outlaw group in South America not long after his discharge. He even worked for gun runners in Africa. So he's gotten his hands dirty in different places. Plus, he's made enemies along the way. Some real bad guys. Then, he dropped off the radar screen entirely. We figure that's when he started working for whatever group Ryker's connected to. Believe me, Trask is not the brains behind something like this. He's a hired gun, that's all. There're others who are calling the shots. We've just got to find out who.”

“Is that his name, Trask?”

“Yeah. We were thinking we might try to flush him out and get a really good look at him tonight, if you're comfortable with going someplace this evening alone.”

“As long as it's not a dark alley. This guy sounds dangerous. Before I just thought he was a sleazy stalker.”

“No dark alleys. We thought the National Gallery around seven thirty tonight. You'd let Jeremy take you home, then after he leaves you can slip out the front door and walk toward Wisconsin. Let it look like you're trying to give Prestige the slip. You'll take a cab to the gallery. We'll already be in position, staking out all the entrances and exits. You won't be alone, for sure, but there will be less tourists this time of year on a late weeknight. Gallery closes at nine.”

“What do I do there, wander around?”

“You'll go straight to the café downstairs, get some coffee, sit at a table, then wait. Bring a magazine to read. Keep looking around like you're expecting someone. Check your watch every few minutes. Wait till they're announcing the gallery is closing, then go upstairs and leave. There will be practically no one there by then. So when you leave, we can hopefully catch him leaving afterwards. He'll be convinced you were waiting for someone who didn't show.”

I felt a slight feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach, but I ignored it. We needed to catch this guy. “Okay. I'm in. The National Gallery, it is.”

nineteen

Friday evening

The taxi driver pulled
to the curb on Constitution Avenue, right in front of the National Gallery. I glanced out the window at the impressive marble façade above. Dark now at seven thirty, but the building was beautifully lit, shining in the night.

“Keep the change,” I said, handing the driver a twenty dollar bill as I opened the door.

“Thank you,” he called out in accented English as I slammed the taxi door and resisted the urge to look around for my constant shadow. Instead, I hurried up the long flight of steps leading to the brass doors above.

I had visited the gallery twice since I'd returned last spring. Once with family and another time with Samantha for a concert. Danny and I had been in the Sculpture Garden and all the surrounding areas and neighboring walkways during the spring and summer. But I'd been too busy to indulge in a leisurely browse like I loved to do.

Now we had ourselves and our belongings scanned upon entry. Sign of the changed times. I took the information booklet from a kindly museum docent who reminded me that the gallery closed at nine tonight. I was counting on it.

I'd said I would go directly downstairs and pretend to wait, but I couldn't resist visiting one of my favorite spots. I skipped up the
greenish marble steps that curved around the landing leading to the
upper floor, which held my favorite exhibits, and headed straight for the fountain in the center beneath the gorgeous domed ceiling. I stood for a moment watching Mercury, still balanced gracefully, water splashing down, and remembered. Remembered all the field trips, all the family trips, all the trips with my daughters young, and daughters older—all stopping for a moment at this pleasant restful spot.

I checked my watch and did a speedy walk-through of the gallery wing, which held my favorite paintings and peeked at some of the old masters. Old friends. Clearly I would have to return when I had more time. Right now, I was on assignment. Assignment: sit and wait. I headed for the marble staircase again and returned to the first floor, then went to the staircase that led to the lower level. If my shadow was following, at least he'd get a workout.

Following the winding hallway toward the bookstore, gift shop, and café, I deliberately paused at the bookstore and browsed. I made a point to look up and glance around, then check my watch. Nearly eight o'clock. I'd noticed the gift shop and bookstore had a fair amount of people in them still. I chose one of the Gallery's beautiful booklets on French Impressionists. Hoping that peaceful scenes of Paris and ballerinas and caf
é
s would be calming, I felt my heart racing already and I was only browsing. I must not be cut out for this work.

As I paid for the booklet, I checked my watch again and glanced around. I saw students, older people, younger ones, business suits, casual gear, but no dark-mustached guy. I also didn't see any shaggy blonds, no older gray-haired men, and no priests.

I used the coffee machines in the only open area of the café and sat down at a table along the edge. People walked by on the way to the entrance to the Hirshhorn Museum. The artistic wall of water was directly across from me, providing a soothing sound of water falling and splashing on rocks. Artistic rocks, of course. I glanced around again, over both shoulders, checked my watch, 8:15. I opened the booklet and proceeded to wait; I stared at the beautiful paintings on the pages. Paintings that should have given me pleasure. This time, I barely saw them. I concentrated on studying every line, then reading every word of the description.

I checked my watch, 8:30, then glanced around. There were definitely fewer people here now. A tall man in an overcoat with graying red hair and a thin face. Couldn't be the same man. Elderly woman with a National Gallery shopping bag. A young woman with a briefcase. Two tourists with Asian features who were holding maps and guidebooks. A guy with a leather jacket and “Hells Angels” emblazoned on the back.

Puzzled, I returned to the booklet and memorized a Degas. Then a Toulouse Lautrec. I checked my watch: 8:43. I glanced around. The two students were still there. So was the Hells Angel guy, talking to the girl behind the cash register. The elderly woman had a pile of books in her arm, still browsing. The tall man had left.

Just then a voice sounded overhead, announcing the gallery would be closing in fifteen minutes. “Please finish up all purchases and leave. Tomorrow's opening hours are …”

I glanced around again and saw the Hells Angel guy finishing up his purchase, the elderly woman right behind him. The two students were hurrying down the hallway.

Assignment completed. My orders were to leave now, and I was more than ready. I grabbed my purse, tossed the empty paper cup into a nearby trash can, returned the book to the shelves, then headed for the hallway and the stairs. Hells Angels guy was checking out more books and Granny was at the register.

I resisted the urge to race down the hallway and made myself walk at a leisurely pace, listening to the sound of my high heels echoing in the empty hall. The sound bounced back from the marble at me as I walked alone. I rounded a corner and headed for the lower staircase leading to the first floor above, my footsteps echoing after me.

The sound of a person's whistle floated farther behind me as I started up the long flight of stairs. A tuneful whistle, quite good, actually. Whistling a familiar tune. I continued to climb as the whistling followed me. What was that melody?

Suddenly I recognized the tune, and the words came to my mind. “In Dublin's fair city, where the girls are so pretty, there lived a fair maid named Molly Malone …”

I froze there on the steps. I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe. All I could do was listen to the whistle as it sounded behind me. Coming closer. The familiar words were the only thing in my head.

“She wheels her wheelbarrow through streets broad and narrow, singing ‘Cockles and mussels …'”

Run!

The command came from deep inside me. I raced up the stairs as fast as I could. The whistle still echoing behind me. Reaching the landing, I sped for the front door, ignoring the docent's “Come again.” I shoved open the first brass door I came to and raced outside. I gulped in a huge breath of chilly, damp air and flew down the long flight of steps leading to the sidewalk below, praying I wouldn't trip and break my neck.

I hesitated briefly at the edge of the sidewalk, then sprinted into Constitution Avenue, arm outstretched, frantically waving down a taxi. Blessedly, one pulled up in front of me. I jumped inside.
Anywhere. Anywhere but here
.

_____

Trask pushed open the brass door and peered at the traffic-filled street below. Malone was frantically waving down a taxi. He smiled, just a little.
Run, little rabbit. Run.

Then he stepped behind one of the massive columns, slipped off a curly gray wig and woman's raincoat, and stuffed them inside the Redskins jacket he was wearing beneath. Leaving the National Gallery shopping bag behind the pillar, he walked down the long flight of steps to Constitution Avenue.

_____

I fumbled at my cell phone, trying to bring up the directory. Then the phone rang in my hand. Danny.

“Molly? What's the matter? You ran out of there like you were shot out of a cannon. Was he there? Did he approach you?”

“He was there. But I didn't see him. I … I heard him.”

“
What?
”

“I kept looking around, but I didn't see anybody that looked like those guys. Then it was time to go, and I started walking up the steps. The gallery was almost empty. And then I heard him … somewhere behind me … whistling. He was following me … whistling ‘Molly Malone.'”

“Son of a bitch,” Danny muttered.

I closed my eyes, feeling the fear of those moments return. “I've never been so scared in all my life, Danny. I just panicked, and I ran out of there as fast as I could.”

“You did exactly right, Molly. You got the hell out of there and away from that sick sonofabitch. But we got a photo of him. It's Trask, all right. We were watching everybody who left the gallery and spotted an older woman come out carrying a shopping bag. But instead of walking down the steps, she went behind one of the columns outside. A few seconds later, Trask stepped from behind the column and walked down the steps. And we got a clear shot of his face.”

I stared out the window of the cab, watching traffic flow past on Constitution Avenue. “The old woman! That was
him
?”

“He's clever, I'll give him that. But we've nailed him. Now we just have to flush him out. Listen, where are you now? Where's the cab?”

“Uhhhhh, looks like we're on Constitution just passing Sixteenth Street.”

“Have the cabbie drop you at the Willard. I don't want you going home alone without me. I'll meet you there as soon as I can get my car. Stay in the lobby around a lot of people. Or go to the bar. I'll be right there.”

“Hurry up.”

“I'm already gone.”

Later that evening

Raymond stood beside the expanse of window in Spencer's office and stared into the darkened streets below. Nighttime traffic flowed along Pennsylvania Avenue, lights illuminating buildings on either side. Traffic lights—red, yellow, and green—headlights, and flashing orange signal lights brightened the night like early holiday decorations. Blinking, twinkling, all along the avenue to the very brilliantly lit white ornament at the top of the tree—the U.S. Capitol. Shining alabaster white.

He took a deep sip from the crystal glass. Spencer's Premium Scotch. Once more, the golden heat coated his throat. It was the only thing that could. “Funny. I never get tired of this view,” he said to Spencer, who stood beside him.

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Spencer swirled the Scotch in his glass.

“You've had this office for, let's see … nearly twenty years, right? When I came, you were in another smaller place on Sixteenth. Damn, that's been twenty-five years.”

“Yeah. Long time ago. Ryker was just starting his third term in Congress.” He took a deep drink.

Raymond couldn't miss the edge in Spencer's voice. Those old memories weren't so fond anymore. He turned to face his friend and colleague. “How's Ryker taking it? Being forced out, I mean.”

“Not good. But he's got no choice, and he knows it. He has to resign the chair of the House Financial Services Committee if he wants Montclair and the group's protection, get help in fighting any bribery or other charges that come up.”

“It's gonna be hard for him to give up that power. What if he refuses and tries to hang on?”

Spencer turned away from the view, and a hint of anger flashed across his face. “Then he'll do it alone. He'll get nothing and neither will his family. The press will tear him to pieces, no matter what. He's finished in Congress, anyway. There's nothing left for him to hang onto. He just doesn't know it yet.”

Raymond watched another emotion flash across his old colleague's face.
Fear
. He'd heard it in Spencer's voice on the phone. Now he saw it on his face. “What are you going to do now? Take a vacation?”

Spencer stared into his glass. “Yeah, Montclair thinks I need to get out of D.C. for a while. He's inviting me to his place in the Bahamas. Take it easy for a few months, lie in the sun, relax. Then he'll try to find a spot for me in one of his consulting firms in London.” He glanced back at Raymond.

Raymond could see the panic banked in Spencer's eyes, and felt his own warning bell go off inside. He could read the writing on the wall. “Well, it sounds like he didn't go ballistic. That's good. I was afraid he would when he found out Malone was the one behind the leaks.”

“Yeah. I was surprised too.” He abruptly turned and walked over to the liquor cabinet across the room. “Let me refill that for you. Listen, Raymond, I'll call you once I get settled in there. And make sure you call me if you need anything.”

Raymond glanced around the office, the luxurious furnishings, so familiar after all these years. “Will do. And thanks again for the Scotch. It's the only thing that eases the cough.”

Spencer reached over and poured until Raymond's glass was half full. Then he looked at Raymond, genuine concern in his eyes. “You need to get that cough taken care of. We won't be needing those higher-level services for a while. So this would be a good time for you to go to one of those medical resorts or something. See a doctor. Hell, get a massage or something.”

Raymond laughed softly, then took a deep drink of the best medicine he knew. “Yeah, I've been thinking I might do that,” he lied. “Relax, sit in the sun, like you said. Winter's coming here. It'll be rain and snow and gray for months.”

Spencer settled into the leather sofa and glanced around his office. “You're right. Winter's coming. It'll be good for us both to get away. I'll let you know once I settle into a place in the Bahamas. You might want to come out and bask in the Caribbean sun.” He caught Raymond's eye. “You're going to clear out your office, right? Computers, files, everything.”

Sinking into the loveseat across from him, Raymond felt his insides sigh as he relaxed into the leather. “Don't worry. It'll be swept clean. I'll let you know when it's done. I'll call Trask on the way back to Virginia. We'll start tomorrow.”

Spencer glanced at his watch. “Damn, it's past ten o'clock. I'm sorry to call you here so late. Why don't you stay at the Willard tonight. I keep a suite there for visiting clients.”

Surprised and a little touched by his colleague's considerate gesture, Raymond smiled. “That's nice of you, Spencer. I appreciate it.”

“It's nothing. I'll call them and authorize everything. They'll bring you anything you need. If you want a steak tonight, just ask for it.”