Bloody Politics (2 page)

“Good luck with following in Quentin Wilson's footsteps. I've heard nothing but high praise about him since his death last summer. Even from politicians on the other side of the aisle. Everyone I've spoken to said he was one of the hardest-working congressmen on the Hill.”

Samantha slowly turned her glass on the tabletop. “Quent was a workaholic. So Sylvia Wilson has big shoes to fill if she aims to live up to her husband's work ethic. From what I've heard from my sources, she's got all she can handle just trying to get up to speed on her committee work. She should have kept more of Quentin's staffers. Now she's having to deal with her Cleveland group's learning curve.”

“Common rookie mistake,” I added with a wry smile. “They have no idea how important the former staffers' institutional knowledge is. I'm just glad Natasha Jorgensen jumped ship to Sally Chertoff's office after Wilson's death.”

“So am I. Sally is a congresswoman on the rise. She's impressing several of the higher-ups in the party, from what I hear.”

Samantha's army of friends, staffers, spouses, and higher-ups spread across Washington—her mice, as she called them—kept my friend on top of the latest gossip as well as any changes blowing in the wind. In Washington, the winds were always blowing. “What are your mice saying about my boss? Anything I should know about?”

“Nothing but good,” Samantha said after sipping her bourbon. “He's continuing to impress the movers-and-shakers with his work ethic, especially now that he's been appointed to the Senate Banking, Housing, and Urban Affairs Committee. Apparently he's stepped forward on the International Trade and Finance Subcommittee. He's been asking penetrating questions, which indicates he's doing his homework.”

“Well, I can vouch for that. He and Peter burrowed into that international banking and finance research in July and are still at it. He even cut his Colorado trip short this past weekend.” I spotted the waiter approach with a tray. “Ahhh, here comes the house specialty.”

“Oh, Lord. That stew is as deadly as it is delicious,” Samantha said when the waiter deposited two bowls of creamy-white oyster stew before us. Steam wafted up from both.

“They make it with real cream, you know,” I teased as I scooped up a spoonful and watched the steam rise.

Samantha paused, creamy spoonful raised. “Don't remind me. I'm trying to ignore the calories.”

“Forgive me, but I needed something to drive away the dismal fall Monday before I returned to Fortress Malone.” I tasted the rich seafood mixture and sighed inwardly. Calories be damned. This was exactly what I needed after a gloomy day. “Delicious, simply delicious.”

“Sinfully so,” Samantha added after closing her eyes in obvious enjoyment. “Now that you've mentioned Fortress Malone, I wanted to catch up on how things have been. You haven't had anything else occur that's alarmed you, have you? Be honest, Molly.”

I savored another mouthful before answering. “No, not a thing. The entire house is locked down tighter than a drum. Special codes and alarms. Both house and yard are totally being watched by the cameras outside. Lights come on even if a neighbor's cat comes prowling. Even Bruce has set them off.”

Samantha closed her eyes. “Oh, thank God. I'm so relieved to hear that. It really concerned me that a prowler had gotten in last summer. Lucky you happened to return and startled him away. Some people come home and find their places vandalized.”

“Well, thank Danny for bringing in that specialty security team. They're responsible. They are way above the norm for security, and they've done a super job.” I took another sip of Guinness. “And, yes. I am relieved that I came home before that prowler could find any bank or credit card statements where he could steal account numbers. I don't need those kinds of problems. So, I guess I was lucky.”

Funny, I didn't feel lucky. I still felt violated by that intrusion in August. And no amount of high-end, top-of-the-line security systems could take away the memory of the fear I felt as I stood over my old desktop computer and discovered it running with My Documents file on the screen. Desk drawers halfway open, my murdered niece Karen's daytimer pulled out. Even though my common sense told me the burglar was simply looking for financial information he could steal, there was still something that bothered me. A niggling little thought in the back of my mind.

“Lord, Molly, you need to sign up for one of those credit-watchdog agencies that oversees your accounts. That's what I did. Too many prying eyes are on the web.” She drained her glass, then added, “I'll send you an email with their website and link. Promise me you'll check them out.”

I scooped up another spoonful of heavenly calories and smiled over at my friend. “I promise, if you promise me you'll join me again for a Monday night dinner. It looks like that's the only evening free on Eleanor's Washington schedule. No need for you to dine alone, either. And I can stay in touch with the Washington whirl. The senator isn't entertaining as much as before. Most evenings he's still absorbed in research.”

“You've got a deal,” Samantha said with a smile as she signaled the waiter with her empty glass.

two

Late Tuesday morning

Luisa appeared in the
doorway of my office. “Can I bring you some coffee, Molly? I just made a fresh pot.”

“Thanks for asking, but I filled up a few minutes ago. Mid-morning break.” Senator Russell's housekeeper of thirty years straightened a stack of books on the corner of my desk. Then she turned to the bookshelves, giving the books a pat to even the spines. “It looks like you're searching for things to do now that we don't have caterers rattling around in the kitchen three times a week.”

Luisa smiled. “Maybe I am missing all the activity. It certainly feels so much quieter these last few weeks. We've only had a few dinners. I guess I got used to that busy, busy pace.”

“Addicted to the action, huh? Or maybe it's the politicians you miss?”

“Lord, no!” she said with a hearty laugh before turning away. “I think I'll go to my sorting list and put this extra time to good use.”

“A sorting list?” I made a face. “I shudder at the idea. Going through clutter by choice rather than necessity is a scary thought.” I heard Luisa's laughter echo down the hallway.

My personal cell phone burst into life, sending the sounds of Aretha Franklin's voice belting out “R-E-S-P-E-C-T.” I saw Danny's name and number flash on the Blackberry screen and picked up as Lady Soul took a breath.

“Hey, there. How's the consulting going?”

“It's starting to wrap up. With luck, we'll finish tomorrow and I can catch a flight home. Maybe be back by six or so.”

“That would be great. Shall I thaw out some of those gourmet leftovers we have stashed in the freezer?”

“Naw. Let's go out. I've been chowing down on seafood this entire weekend, so a steak sounds good.”

That comment immediately caught my interest. “Seafood, huh? You must be near the water. Some place with a lot of really big ships, I'll bet.”

Danny's low chuckle sounded over the phone. “Good guess.”

My office Blackberry came to life this time, and a saxophone wail sounded throughout the office. Wicked Wilson Pickett with “Mustang Sally.” This was classics month on my playlist.

“Okay, Squad Leader. Keep me posted.”

“Roger that. You and Sally behave until I get back.”

“No promises.”

I heard Danny's laughter until he clicked off.

_____

Raymond grabbed both sides of the bathroom sink, holding on until the coughing fit ceased. His fingers bled white with the effort, body shaking. Finally, the spasms eased, the shaking calmed.

Jesus God
…
that was the worst one yet
.

He spat out phlegm into the white sink. That's when he saw it. Tiny red droplets in the sink below. He'd figured it was only a matter of time before it started. Inevitable. He stared into his office bathroom mirror. The bluish-gray shadows beneath his eyes were even more noticeable now against his sallow skin.

Raymond splashed cold water on his face and rinsed the incriminating droplets down the drain. Then he rubbed the hand towel across his face, hard. Tried to get the blood moving, get some color into his face so he didn't look like a goddamn corpse.

He walked back to his office and sank into the desk chair. The fatigue was getting worse too. Another sign. Raymond knew all the signs. He'd read up on it a couple of years ago. The warning signs. Opening a lower desk drawer, he brought out the bottle of thirty-year-old Scotch Spencer had given him last spring. It was the last bottle in the case. He picked up a crystal glass sitting beside the old-fashioned electric clock on his desk and poured himself two generous fingers of the molten gold. He took a drink and let the liquid heat coat his cough-ravaged throat. Better. A little better.

Raymond slowly rose from his chair, taking the glass of Scotch and the bottle as he walked down the hallway to one of the inner offices. No windows in this room. Shelves of equipment lined the walls, along with cameras and various other pieces of equipment. On a long table against the wall was a monitor screen, showing the front yard and driveway of a two-story brick townhouse. Beside the monitor screen sat more equipment, one with a smaller, gray monitor screen.

Raymond checked his watch and sat in the upholstered chair beside the table. He stared at the blinking white cursor on the smaller screen. He entered a few lines of type and symbols on the keyboard below.

Let's see who the Jorgensen girl talked to last night
, he thought as the screen suddenly showed lines of white type scrolling backwards. Raymond watched the time clock at the top of the screen that revealed the hours and minutes as they also sped backwards.

Raymond checked the log sheet on the clipboard beside his elbow. He logged off at 6:35 yesterday evening. As he hit the play button, the monitor screen showed lines of white text separated by lots of space—pauses in the recorded conversations that rolled by on the screen. Raymond scanned the lines of text. It was a personal call. Then a hang up, and another personal call. Jorgensen must be answering voice mails.

By 10:15 that evening, he noticed a large amount of empty space roll past on the screen.
Bedtime
, he thought and scrolled forward faster as he sipped the Scotch slowly. He watched the clock register 7:00 in the morning. Two more personal calls scrolled by. Raymond leaned back in the chair and watched the screen clock. Only a couple more hours, and he would be synchronized with his watch.

Just then, another conversation started. Raymond abruptly sat up after the caller identified herself. Congresswoman Sylvia Wilson was on the line, talking with Natasha Jorgensen. Raymond leaned forward, reading the lines of a phone conversation that took place only a half hour ago.

He watched several key words pass by in the text of the phone call. Words he'd hoped he wouldn't see again. Congressman Quentin Wilson. House Financial Services Committee. Quentin's notebook.
Quentin Wilson had a notebook?
What the hell!

Raymond leaned even closer to the screen, not wanting to miss a single word. Research on banking and international monetary policy. Chairman of the House committee, Edward Ryker. At the mention of that name, Raymond's gut twisted. Why was Sylvia Wilson sticking her nose where it didn't belong? Asking if her husband ever mentioned Congressman Ryker.
What the hell?

He watched the white text roll by on the screen.
Jorgensen doesn't know anything. Quentin Wilson never mentioned Ryker. She's acting surprised. Or, is she lying to the congresswoman?
He'd heard that Sylvia Wilson had run roughshod over her husband's congressional staffers, so there was definitely no love lost between the staffers who jumped ship and the widow. Certainly there would be no desire to help the nosy new congresswoman.

A pause on the screen. Then the congresswoman asked Jorgensen to drop by her office and take a look at the notebook. See if she recognized anything.
Holy crap.
That was all they needed. Jorgensen making connections, finding out what her former boss had learned from his research.

More text filled the screen. Jorgensen was busy tonight with a visiting Iowa delegation and Congresswoman Chertoff. She'd be free Wednesday night. Sylvia Wilson suggested 6:30 at her office in the Rayburn Building. The lines of white type stopped.

Raymond stared at the blank monitor screen.
Dammit!
Everything had quieted down. Quentin Wilson's death had disappeared from the media spotlight. He was dead and buried. All questions had been answered. He overdosed deliberately because his bitch of a wife was going to divorce him and expose his affair with Samantha Calhoun to the world. His political career was ruined. And now this.
Dammit to hell!
What was Sylvia Wilson up to? And what did Quentin Wilson have in his notebook?

Raymond pushed away from the table and returned to the front of his office to retrieve his cell phone. The morning sun threw a bright swath across his worn oriental rug. He pressed Trask's number, then searched through his pockets for more throat lozenges. When he didn't find any, he opened his center desk drawer while the line connected. Finding a half-filled bag of the honey-coated throat lozenges, he dumped the contents on his desk. Trask's voice answered as Raymond popped a lozenge into his mouth.

“What's up? We talked yesterday.”

Raymond sucked on the honey-coated drop. “You need to come back to town. The phone bug picked up a conversation between Sylvia Wilson and Jorgensen. It seems Wilson found a notebook from departed hubby Quentin. Lots of stuff about international banks and money transfers. She called Jorgensen to ask what she knew about it. Jorgensen acted surprised. Claims she never knew about any notebook.”

“So, what's the big deal? It sounds like the same stuff he was researching.”

“It also had Ryker's name in it.”

“
Aw, crap
.”

Raymond could hear the disgust in Trask's tone. “Yeah, that's what I said. We're gonna have to take a look at that notebook. Or find out what's in it,” he said, walking back into the office with the monitors. “Jorgensen will be busy with visiting Iowans till tomorrow. She told the congresswoman she'd come to her office Wednesday night to take a look. We need to find out who she sees and talks to when she's not on her phone. You're gonna have to be right on her.”

“Roger that. Let me get the boat prepared and boarded. Then I can drive back tomorrow.”

Movement on the smaller monitor screen caught Raymond's attention and he leaned over to read the lines of white type. The words “text message” appeared first on the screen. Raymond read the following two lines of type, and his gut took another twist.

“Dammit to hell,”
he muttered into the phone. “Jorgensen just sent a text message to Malone. ‘You'll never guess who called me a few minutes ago. Sylvia Wilson.'”

“I'll take the boat over now. Keep me posted. I want to hear what Malone says.”

“You and me both.”

“We warned them about Jorgensen. Never leave loose ends.” Trask's line clicked off.

Yeah, we did
, Raymond thought as he went to retrieve another lozenge.

Tuesday afternoon

“Sorry to dump all this on you, Molly,” Peter Brewster said, handing me another folder. “But those subcommittee sessions will consider these issues of international banks and financial institutions in a couple of days and the senator needs those summaries.”

“That's okay, Peter. I didn't have anything planned for tonight anyway.” I checked the headings on the folders. “So you simply want me to go through these reports and copy only the headings and summary paragraphs, right?”

Peter nodded. “Exactly. And I promise this won't happen again. I'll be interviewing tomorrow for the two new research staffer positions. They can take over after that. Meanwhile, the senator told me you can have a few extra-long weekends as his thank you.” He grinned. “I imagine you and Danny might want to escape to some warmer winter climes when the snow starts to fall.”

“Tell the senator thank you, and I'll take him up on that offer in February when the ice starts coating the streets,” I said, following Peter from his office and into the mansion hallway. “I don't mind snow. It's the ice that causes problems. D.C. traffic is bad enough without everybody sliding into each other on the roadways.” I grimaced.

“Oh, I told Luisa you'd be staying here for dinner tonight. The senator and I are off to Senator Dunston's reception.” Peter paused in the hallway. “You and Luisa and Albert can order out if you want. Put it on my credit card.”

“Now you know Luisa would take that as an insult,” I teased. “Besides, I'm looking forward to listening to Albert and Luisa brag about the grandchildren. I'm sure they've got new pictures.”

“Oh, yeah. Albert showed me this morning,” Peter said, heading toward the front door. I could hear his cell phone's music ringing from his jacket pocket.

Back to work for both of us. I paused on the way to my office at the end of the hallway and pulled my cell phone from my pocket. A text message came in from Natasha Jorgensen. I clicked on it and read. “You'll never guess who just called me. Sylvia Wilson.”

I had to smile. From what Samantha told me the other night, Widow Wilson was still trying to find her footing on Capitol Hill and was still stumbling. She was probably calling Natasha to ask her to come over and explain the filing system. That was what happened when you let all your experienced Hill staffers leave and brought in Cleveland rookies. Unlike professional baseball, Capitol Hill had no minor leagues where you could work your way up. Congress was Major League ball. You'd better know how to play, or you'd be played.

I shut my phone off completely and stashed it in my jacket pocket. No time for Widow Wilson stories right now. I would be working late for Senator Russell. And he was definitely a Major League player.