Bloody Politics (4 page)

“Yeah, I know.”

There was a resigned sound in Spencer's voice that Raymond had heard before, so he pushed a little more. “Now, we've got Congresswoman Wilson snooping around in addition to Malone. There's no way we could touch the congresswoman, and you guys decided hands-off Malone. For now, at least.”

“Yeah, yeah … ancient history. I know where you're going Raymond, and I agree with you. If we can shut it down now with Jorgensen, then we should. It's just …”

Raymond let the pause grow, feeling Spencer's reluctance over the phone. “Trask has already picked out the perfect spot. Under Key Bridge along the Canal. The Jorgensen girl runs before six, so it'll still be mostly dark then.”

“I thought you said she was meeting Malone then.”

“They're set to meet later on Thirty-first Street where it crosses over the Canal. Jorgensen would be on her return run. Trask has followed her several times along the Canal. Malone too. He knows that stretch and knows their habits.” He waited for Spencer's response.

“Yeah … go ahead. Do it.”

“Okay …” Raymond said, hearing the hard edge in Spencer's tone. “I'll tell Trask.” Maybe this time, things would quiet down and stay quiet. Maybe.

four

Early Thursday morning

I zipped my lightweight
running jacket closer to my chin. A slight breeze had picked up, rustling the leaves of trees bordering the Chesapeake and Ohio Canal. I hadn't been chilly when I first started running from my house on P Street down through the darkened predawn Georgetown streets toward the Canal. But now that I was no longer running, I felt the fall temperature change more keenly.

Walking up and over the arched roadway where Thirty-first Street spanned the Canal, I stood at midpoint of the bridge and stared down the towpath once again. Natasha must be running late. Early dawn had brought a little more light, which made it easier to make out the faces of the runners getting in their morning workout. No sign of Natasha yet.

I pulled my cell phone from the pocket of my running pants and searched for any missed text messages. Maybe I hadn't heard the little beep with the sounds of morning traffic. More cars on the streets now. I'd heard a siren's wail a few minutes ago. It sounded only a few blocks away. Probably an early morning fender bender.

I also checked for any unanswered phone messages and only saw Loretta Wade's message last night. She was the senior researcher at the Congressional Research Service of the Library of Congress and had a question. I hadn't been able to get back to her because Danny was picking me up from the office and the rest of the evening we planned to be incommunicado. Only talking to each other.

I glanced down the towpath again and decided to start running in the direction Natasha would be coming. And I might as well return Loretta's call at the same time. Heading down the paved incline that led from the bridge to the Canal below, I punched in Loretta's number as I jogged slower along the towpath. No sunshine this morning. It was gray and gloomy. On the verge of rain.

Loretta's phone rang a couple of times, then her no-nonsense voice sounded. “Hey, Molly! We're both up and at 'em early.”

“Well, I'm not getting at anything right now except the Canal towpath. I'm not even at the office yet. I'm waiting for a friend to show up. She promised to meet me.”

“I just got in here to my office. It's quieter now and I can work on the long to-do list hanging over my head.”

“I know what you mean. Hey, your text message said you had a question about my deceased brother-in-law Eric Grayson's research. Did you find something?”

“I found a whole bunch of topics that he'd researched. European Union banking regulations, financial institutions. Kind of strange since it was Europe. He had searched international banking regulation in general. But he had also searched U.S. legislation, which involved transferring money to European banks. I thought that was strange because he was never on any banking or financial subcommittees or committees. I know it was years ago, I wondered if he left any notes explaining what he was searching for.”

Eric Grayson's notebook. I remembered my niece Karen talking about her father's notebook, how she'd kept it and gone over his notes sometimes.

“Matter of fact, he did. Karen kept her father's research notebook, and I remember she said he made notes of things he was investigating. I put it in her safety deposit box along with insurance policies and other legal documents after her death. I tried to put her things away. They were a reminder she was gone.”

“I'm sorry, Molly. I didn't mean to bring back painful memo
ries.”

“No, no, it's okay. I could take a look at that notebook and see what's there.” A woman runner passed around me as I ran, and I picked up my pace. I thought I spotted a cluster of people farther ahead, near the Key Bridge overpass. Probably a college track team doing an early morning run before class.

“If you get a chance to go through it, let me know. Especially if you find any notes that might explain why he did all those searches. He showed up at the Library of Congress three times a week for several weeks. I remember because I worked there during that time period. This puzzle was too easy to solve. I need a challenge. A new puzzle.”

“I'll take a look at the notebook, Loretta. If I find anything, I'll let you know. Maybe we can share over another Irish pub dinner.”

“Sounds good. Talk to you later.”

She clicked off, and I slid the small phone back into my running pants pocket. Meanwhile, it looked like the cluster of people farther ahead weren't running. And the same-color shirts weren't team jerseys. They looked like uniforms—Washington, D.C. police uniforms.

A chill passed through me then, and it wasn't because of the breeze. Another runner approached me, coming from that direction. I waved at him as he neared and yelled, “What's happening by the bridge?”

“D.C. cops and medics. They blocked off the towpath,” he said as he passed, slowing his stride to glance back at me. “Saw a girl on a stretcher. Lots of blood.” Then he took off running again.

His words stopped me in my tracks. A cold fist twisted my stomach.
Natasha. God, no.
I took off, running faster, drawing closer to the uniformed personnel clustered beneath the huge span that was Key Bridge. I spotted an ambulance parked on the roadway directly above the Canal. Two white-uniformed men hurried down the steps that edged the stone wall bordering the Canal and towpath.

“Ma'am, stop! You can't run here. You gotta turn around now,” a heavyset D.C. policeman commanded as he approached, waving at me.

I stopped immediately. “What happened?” I asked him, my voice higher pitched than normal. “I'm … I'm going to meet my friend. She's up ahead.” I pointed toward the bridge.

“You'll have to meet her somewhere else, ma'am. Now, turn around and head back the way you came, okay?” He directed me in a no-nonsense tone, pointing down the towpath behind me.

I obeyed without a word, retreating a few paces. The policeman made a shooing gesture with his hand, and I turned around and started slowly walking back down the towpath, looking over my shoulder as I did. The white-uniformed medical personnel were hovering together at the far end beneath the bridge span. Several other runners and onlookers stood on the side of the towpath along the Canal, watching the proceedings. I left the towpath and joined them. We were far enough away so we did not attract police attention.

The cluster of police separated as two medical personnel carried a stretcher out from under the bridge. Two other medics accompanied them. The person on the stretcher was covered totally by a white sheet or blanket, including the face. The person had to be dead. The medics angled the stretcher as they slowly started up the steps bordering the stone wall.

Suddenly a slender leg slipped from beneath the white cover and dangled over the side of the stretcher. One of the medics walking beside stopped the stretcher carriers for a moment while he tucked the gray-clad leg beneath the white shroud once again. The men resumed their careful climb.

It was only a moment, but it was long enough for me to spot the bright-yellow running shoe on the foot that dangled over the side. The cold fist in my gut squeezed tighter. Natasha wore neon, bright-yellow running shoes. She joked they were her nighttime and early morning alert system. Drivers and cyclists couldn't miss the bright-yellow shoes.

I stared, unwilling to move until the medics had the girl on the stretcher safely loaded onto the ambulance. That's when I took off, running as fast as I could down the towpath. Back to Thirty-first Street and back toward my house. It was too early to call Natasha's office. No one would be answering the phones. But my gut told me what I didn't want to know. Natasha was the girl on the stretcher. I
knew
it.

Digging my phone from my pants pocket again, I scanned the directory and slowed down long enough to press Casey's number. He was the only one I knew who could find out the girl's identity and what happened to her. Maybe. I listened to his phone ring three times before his gruff voice answered.

“Molly? Has something happened? Why are you calling so early?”

I slowed enough so I could make sense. “Casey … I'm here on the towpath. I was supposed to meet Natasha Jorgensen …”

“Who?”

I let loose a torrent. “She used to work for Quentin Wilson, but I was gonna meet her because she had notes from Quentin Wilson. But she never showed up at six thirty, so I went down the path toward Key Bridge where she was running, and … and I saw cops, Casey. D.C. cops and medics and a body on a stretcher. It was all covered up, so I knew the person was dead. I knew it. And I saw Natasha's running shoes! I recognized them.”

“Whoa … slow down, Molly! Where are you now?”

“I'm running down the Canal, heading home. But I wanted to ask if you could check with your D.C. cop friends to find out what happened here. I
know
it was Natasha, Casey! I just know it!”

“Okay, hold on. You get home, Molly, and I'll see what I can find out while I'm heading to the senator's house. Hell, I haven't even gotten in the shower yet. The cops probably don't know much, to be honest. Whoever it was probably didn't have an ID on them. Most people don't carry an ID when they run. So it may take a while to identify her.”

I hadn't even thought of that. “You're right. Okay, find out what you can. I'll see you at the office. Thanks, Casey. I—I appreciate it.”

“Talk to you later, Molly. And for God's sake, be careful while you're running. Pay attention. It's rush hour. Where's Danny?”

“He's probably sitting in rush hour on the way to a meeting at Quantico.”

“Well, better him than us. See you at the office.”

“Thanks, Casey.”

I shoved the phone into my pants pocket and picked up my pace, running as if the Devil himself were behind me. For all I knew, he might be. That had to be his handiwork beneath Key Bridge this morning. Too close. Much too close.

_____

I stood in the hallway of the Russell mansion and watched Casey pace at the other end of the hall, next to the living room and the French doors leading to the garden outside. He was still on the phone with one of his D.C. cop friends trying to find out details about the dead girl found beneath Key Bridge this morning. Clasping my coffee mug with both hands, I held it close to my chest, absorbing its warmth.

Peter stepped out of his library office down the hall, glanced to Casey, then walked over to where I stood by the door to my office. The emails accumulating in my inbox would have to wait.

“Have you called Chertoff's office yet? Any word on Natasha?” he peered at me in concern.

“I called as soon as I got back to my house. I asked them to let me know the moment Natasha came into the office. I said I was worried something had happened to her, because she didn't show up to meet me this morning. I didn't say anything about seeing a body on a stretcher.” I closed my eyes. “Just in case I'm wrong. God, I hope I'm wrong. I hope Natasha spent the night with some fantastic guy and totally blew me off this morning. God, I hope so.” But my gut didn't believe it.

Peter made an attempt to smile, but his smile couldn't make it past the worry already on his face. “I hope so, too, Molly. I don't want to think about the other.”

I wished I couldn't think about it, but that image of a dead girl's body shrouded on the stretcher, slender pant-covered leg dangling over the side. Neon-yellow running shoes. How many people wore shoes that color? I had only spotted one pair like that since I'd been running in Washington, and they were on Natasha Jorgensen's feet.

“I checked with some friends in the Rayburn building,” he continued. “Their office is next to Congresswoman Chertoff's. So if anything happens there, like police show up or something, they'll give me a call.”

“Thanks, Peter. Let's hope they don't see anything.” Just then, my attention was drawn to Casey. He was pocketing his cell phone and walking down the hall toward us.

“That was Lieutenant Schroeder. He said they're checking into the dead girl's identity now. Her throat was cut. They think it may have been an attempted sexual assault and she fought back. No witnesses, of course,” Casey added. “Any drunks sleeping under the bridge would take off the minute they heard a scuffle.”

I felt a shudder run over me at that image. “A guy on the towpath told me he saw a girl on a stretcher and there was lots of blood.”

Peter flinched. “Good God. With all those people running in the morning. You'd think you'd be safe.”

“It's fall now and still Daylight Saving Time. So it's actually dark before six a.m. Schroeder said the girl had her cell phone and keys but no other ID. I told him about your planned meeting with Natasha Jorgensen, Molly. And your concerns, especially after you witnessed the medics taking the body away.” He looked at me sadly. “Schroeder said to thank you for the information. They're going to contact Congresswoman Chertoff's office.”

Lieutenant Schroeder was the D.C. police detective in charge of investigating my niece Karen's murder last spring. He was very good and worked very hard trying to find the killer. “Well, that's something. Detective Schroeder is certainly thorough.”

Peter put his hand on my arm and looked at me solicitously. “We don't know it was Natasha, Molly. Try not to worry.” The sound of his cell phone buzzed from his jacket pocket. “That's probably Jackie from the Hill reminding me of a meeting.”

“Go back to work, Peter. You've got to stay on task. I'm okay. I'll keep you posted if I hear from Natasha's office.”

Casey gave my arm a squeeze before he started toward the front entry. “I promise I'll call as soon as I hear from Schroeder, Molly.”

Peter gave me a half smile as he backed away. “I'm still hoping it's that hot-date scenario you described.”

“See you later, guys,” I half waved to them as I headed toward the kitchen. I needed another mug of coffee to keep away the chill that had penetrated through my clothes.